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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082688">L'appel du Vide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerozer0/pseuds/cerozer0'>cerozer0</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Disco Elysium</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Art Cop, Case Fic, Drama, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Murder Mystery, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 11:08:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23082688</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerozer0/pseuds/cerozer0</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>[INQUIRY: WHAT MAKES A MAN? WHAT MAKES A DECISION?]<br/>[INQUIRY: ARE THE VOICES IN MY HEAD MY OWN?]<br/>[INQUIRY: IS INSANITY CONTAGIOUS?]</p><p>Kim Kitsuragi wakes up from a nightmare with voices in his head and a new murder to unravel. Will he and Harry be able to solve this artist's riddle without cracking under the pressure, or will the streets of Jamrock be painted in blood?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>178</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kim Kitsuragi considered himself an expert at staring into voids. Through his forty years of life, he had witnessed the hollowness of orphanages, the darkest emptiness of dreams, the shadows of back alleys filled with cigarette smoke. He had walked side by side with a man, one Harry Du Bois, whose eyes held so much infallible emotion that Kim was afraid he might fall in from time to time and drown. All of them, every liminal space and vacant stare, they were all voids. And Kim was an expert on voids.</p><p>So, it was a wonder why the one he currently floated through, a dream void, scared him so much. Logically, he knew nothing could hurt him here. Despite the magical concoction his cortex and limbic system created, Kim was often quite lucid in whatever fleeting memory or vision the nighttime brought. If he were the type to remember his dreams, he might even be quite an excellent lucid dreamer. Sadly, his waking mind had no use for whatever went on in the dead of night. But he wasn’t awake now. He was asleep, floating in darkness, utterly alone, and so, so scared.</p><p>Kim curled tightly in on himself, ashamed enough to grit his teeth and keep from calling for help. He twirled through the starless space and felt like some sort of planet or meteor. There was no up or down. There were no clues as to where escape may be. There was only the cold, dusty air and, if he strained his ears enough, the faintest hum of electricity. </p><p>Someone was watching him, no. Something was watching him. Floating, alone, shaking. Kim tried to remind himself that he wouldn’t be hurt here, this was just a dream after all, but he could feel those eyes on him. He was being scrutinized. Some childish fear within Kim’s chest even uttered a senseless mantra to keep his own eyes closed, to stop moving, if you can’t see it, it can’t see you. Kim screwed his eyes shut. Streaks of light and color played across his eyelids, an invisible, unseeable canvas of red and white. The hum of electricity grew closer. The Thing watched.</p><p>Distant voices, so soft that Kim thought they were just the same buzz, shook him from his frightened spell. Kim slowly unfurled, rolling, and stared out into the darkness. His cry for help was swallowed by the emptiness. </p><p>The voices grew closer, and Kim could make out a familiar growl, tone, accent.</p><p>“Remember the Piles? Festering, leaking sick– a rot invisible to those most at risk. Radioactivity deep enough to curdle your marrow. Remember that?”</p><p>No one answered. Kim called for help again, and again his voice refused to travel.</p><p>“That little fucked up brain of yours is radioactive, don’t you know? Every little person you share air with is bound to catch your sickness. Another mistake you’ll make. Another sick thing in the world to infect and infect and infect. Face it, baby, you’re <em> contagious. </em>”</p><p>“Leave me alone.” It was Harrier Du Bois himself, a speck of green in the endless void. Kim twisted around in the dark and tried not to think of how wet and cold his face felt. He screamed for help, and still, no one heard. The ancient, growling voice laughed, and the void was suddenly spiked with melding watercolors, blue and orange and red and yellow.</p><p>“You know we can’t go and do that, Du Bois. We’re all along for your wild ride, but hey, those bastards at the 41st don’t gotta be. You could leave again, baby, go for a wild ride down the coast. Crash into the sea. Become one with that wonderful, maddening Pale. It’s a dream and a half. But I know you. I know you’re little game. You’ll crash and burn soon enough.”</p><p>“Just let me wake up,” Harry begged. Kim waved his arms, desperate to be seen, but Harry and the deep, dark voice paid him no mind. “Leave them out of this. I’m not— I can’t be–“</p><p>“It’s an easy choice to make, Harry, you either stick around ‘till they all go mad and leave you, or you rip off the bandaid and go on your own. They’ll be better off. Just like <em> her. </em>”</p><p>Kim, now more frustrated than frightened, curled his fingers into fists and shouted. Again, unseen, unheard. In a last-ditch attempt for attention, he ripped the glasses from his face and threw them into the darkness towards Harry. Kim realized as he watched the silver specks glide through the dark that his eyesight in dreams seemed to be fine, and before he could decide if that was funny or entirely unfair, the frames slapped against Harry’s arm. He turned, eyes wide and horrified until he met Kim’s. </p><p>The growling voice laughed again. Another voice, high pitched and mournful, whined, “See, Harrier, do you see. It’s already begun. Radioactive insanity, contagious suicides, maybe even your addictions are transferable. You have doomed the Haloed One.”</p><p>“Kim?” Harry gawked, though he made no attempt to float towards Kim. Kim tried to greet him to no avail. “Is he real? He can’t be real. This is my dream.” The deep voice laughed again.</p><p>“Don’t you hear us? You’re contagious, baby, a walking madness pandemic. A ticking nuclear wasteland. The End.”</p><p>“Kim,” Harry called, his face twisted like a smeared painting, “Kim, Kim, you have to…” Static replaced his words. The darkness shifted. The Thing returned, the Watcher in the dark, invisible and hungry. Kim wrapped his arms around himself and called for Harry, for help, for anything as the fear set in again.</p><p>“Kim!” Harry called again, over the static, over the laughter and the sobs, “Kim! You have…”</p><p>“Haloed One, infernal, smoldering, endless engine, you should leave while you have the chance.” Kim knew It wasn’t talking about the dream.</p><p>“Kitsuragi, baby, you’re in for a world of fucked up shit. Buckle up.”</p><p>“Kim! Wake! Up!”</p><p>And then Kim was staring at his popcorned ceiling, breathing heavily and swimming in a pool of his own sweat. Dawnlight slanted through the barred windows of his bedroom, painting the white walls a creamy orange. The distant sounds of grinding metal and gulls bid Kim good morning as he peeled himself from his sheets and stumbled towards the bathroom door. Blind as a bat, he slapped the wall until he found the light switch, and an instant migraine burst from behind his eyes as light filled the tiny room. The blurry visage of himself watched from the mirror as Kim pressed back against the doorframe and tried to compose himself, fighting back nausea and twisting auras that coalesced in the corner of his eyes. The bathroom itself laid in quiet contemplation, a toilet, a shower, and a sink, all watching the downfall of their usually well put together renter.</p><p>Kim could still hear the teeth-numbing laugh from the dream. It bounced around his head like lightning and infected the white tiles beneath his feet with untouchable color.</p><p>“That’s improbable,” Kim’s Logic uttered in the back of his head, “You’re awake, the dream is over. There’s nothing laughing in here.”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Impossible,” Kim agreed through gritted teeth. He lurched towards the sink and planted his hands on either side of the basin. The migraine was beginning to fade, which left just enough brainpower for Kim to realize he had just heard a voice in his head.</p><p>Wait. He had just heard a voice in his head.</p><p>“Indeed,” the voice, Logic, pondered, “indeed you have. Maybe it’s time to grab that notebook of yours, you want to write this down.”</p><p>Kim stared at his blurry reflection instead and tried to not think at all. Though the churning of the Industrial Harbour still sang just outside his clouded windows, none of that familiar noise could fend away the faintest hum that echoed within his brain. Like an electrical circuit. Was he hearing his own neurotransmitters? Was he hearing the building itself, buzzing with endless, unknowable life?</p><p>“Oh God, you’re crazy,” another voice, Composure, rattled through Kim’s skull, “look at you, shaking like some sick child. Get it together, Kitsuragi.”</p><p>“That's right, Lieutenant. You got work to do down at the 41st,” Esprit De Corps said, “There’s a new case for the task force, Satellite-Officer Vicquemare is readying the troops as we speak.”</p><p>Kim gasped audibly as blurry images formed behind his eyes, smoke-people, shaped like Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare and Patrol Officer Judit Minot, stood in Precinct 41’s breakroom. They sipped coffee and leaned against the memory of walls.</p><p>“Bet he’s still out,” Jean scoffed, “bet he drank himself to oblivion again. I should just pass this case off to McLaine and Torso and call it a day.”</p><p>“Give him a chance, Vic,” Judit said, placating and calm, “Kitsuragi being around is just… Well, he’s been clean for a month and change now, right? They can handle this.”</p><p>“Kitsuragi, Kitsuragi— bah,” Jean took the rest of his coffee like a shot.</p><p>“No need to get jealous now, Vic,” Judit teased, and then they were gone, and Kim was staring at himself in the mirror, mouth agape and eyes crazed. </p><p>“Better get goin’, champ. You’ve got energy to burn, justice to serve, and you do so love servin’ that justice! One may even say you’re<em> addicted. </em> ” Another new voice, Electrochemistry. What a stupid name for a brain-voice. Kim dragged a hand down his face and found that he had no clue what to do. Writing himself off as crazy was still viable, but it’s easier to write another off as insane than yourself. Kim still had to <em> interact </em> with himself after all was said and done. So, he was crazy and he had to deal with it. Fine. </p><p>Kim dealt with it by taking a blisteringly cold shower and brushing his teeth until he spat more blood than toothpaste. He dealt with it even as he changed into his usual orange bomber and flipped through both his personal journal and his cases notebook and looking for any previous indications of his own insanity. What lay in those pages, though, were familiar straight lines, case notes, interviews, the occasional odd but poetic doomsday musing Harry would mutter between conversations. Nothing of Kim’s own mind seemed amiss in his writing— if anything, though, his writing and the voices in his head felt as though they served the same purpose. </p><p>“Maybe you just weren’t creative enough for internalized monologue, Kimball,” Conceptualization chimed in, “maybe hanging around Du Bois brought the art out of you. We can make a poet of you yet.”</p><p>“Be quiet,” Kim hissed, staring at the floor-length mirror leaned against on his bedroom wall, “just— get through the day. Start investigating this new case. Do not. Talk. To yourself. In public.” Kim’s reflection stared back, expression twisted into a grim scowl. He didn’t look crazy, he looked upset, annoyed. And he had nothing to say back. The voices were silent. The buzzing remained. Pulling his pen from where it lay between the pages of his personal journal, Kim scribbled onto a fresh line: </p><p>
  <em> INQUIRY: DOES HEARING VOICES IN YOUR HEAD MAKE YOU CRAZY?  </em>
</p><p>He stared at the inquiry, trying and failing to put together an answer. Just writing a question down wouldn't dictate a solution, that much was clear. He shoved the notebooks into his jacket pocket and turned his back on the mirror.</p><p>Kim pulled on his boots and stepped out into his living room. Morning light filled the sparse room with stark shadows and dust motes. The few plants laid on his coffee table and kitchen island leaned toward the half-open blinds, starving for sunlight. His single couch, a horrid plaid nightmare he pulled in from a flea market, was covered in papers— dead and dry or closed case files he had started organizing for the 41st. The small tickle in his fingers, the urge to straighten up before he left, came and went. It was nearly seven and he had a half an hour drive ahead.</p><p>A half an hour alone with his thoughts.</p><p>“Isn’t that nice? Alone, all alone, to dream, to see the world anew?” Inland Empire whispered, “you know what is ahead, a case, Harrier Du Bois, another day. Another thought. Another dream. Sadly, I must say: something bad is going to happen.” Kim pressed his ear against his shoulder and forced the voice away, tamping down the seductive purr under an imaginary boot. The twist of anxiety remained.</p><p>Kim pulled open his front door and stared out at Revachol. He breathed in the morning air, tinged with salt and smoke. A fragrant hello, familiar like the lines of his notebooks and the motorcycle parked on the street below.</p><p>He could manage, probably. With the radio blaring and the wind in his face, he could manage his mind.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Precinct 41 was beginning to warm by the time Kim pulled into the personal vehicle garage. His motorcycle gave one last roaring tremble when he killed the engine and hopped off. Speedfreaks FM had been turned off for the last block if only to keep his professional demeanor up with the rest of the 41st, so he was stuck with the last song playing on repeat in his mind. The garage proper was nearly empty, save for someone’s clunky old motor carriage and the tinny voice of a morning talk show coming from a tiny radio balanced on top of a mountain of tools and papers. Ancient sawdust covers the slate gray floor and edison bulbs hang from the high tin room, struggling to stay lit. The road outside the large green garage doors was nearly quiet, save for McLaine and Torson on their hourly smoke break. The reek of Kuklov’s kebabs permeated the air as always, indicating he was both near and ready for business. Kim decided against peeking out to greet any of the men outside and walked through the far left door into the Issued Vehicle garage.</p><p>Four motor carriages groaned in succession as Kim dodged around them, trying not to let his eyes linger on the slightly raised Kineema in the corner. A mechanic was working on the engine, tightening bolts, tapping fuel gauges. Having to leave his own issued Coupris Kineema back at Precinct 57 was perhaps the biggest blow to come out of his transfer, but the ever empathetic Harry had put in an order for a new carriage one week after Kim’s arrival, citing it as a “necessity”. Jean wasn’t happy, but, then again, Jean was never happy. The 41st managed to procure a used and battered old carapace which looked nothing like Kim’s old cruiser, but it had a radio and leather seats and a cobalt blue paint job. It was a new project and Kim loved it more than he would ever admit.</p><p>“You can’t wait to dig your hands in there, to switch out the headlights and hubcaps, to understand this new carriage better than you understand your own body,” Interfacing crooned, “it really is a beauty.” Kim ducked his head and paused to press his fingers against his temple. The voice faded as if it had never existed at all.</p><p>The other carriages were all Coupris ‘40s and might have looked well maintained if not for the countless obvious patches to past gunfights. Kim slid through the garage silently and only greeted the mechanic with a curt, professional nod before ducking into the stairwell which led up into the precinct’s offices. The old silk mill’s innards were all brass-colored and reeked of oxidation. Every stairwell wound like a coil up to concrete floors covered in wooden desks and old couches and ansty, tired RCM officers. There were two major floors to Precinct 41, the first housing most of the patrol officers desks, a makeshift holding cell, a seating area for civilians, and the Communications booth. The second-floor bullpen was where most of the detectives and decorated officers did their work, all in a high-ceiling, wall-less room that possessed long, thin windows and its own kitchenette for breaks. Kim moved with a single-minded purpose up to the second floor and immediately bumped into Jean as he pushed open the door.</p><p>“Oh, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” he said in lieu of a greeting, “I was about to give you a call. Detective Sober was getting worried.”</p><p>“I’m sorry. Time got away from me,” Kim said, not breaking eye contact. A miasma of displeasure formed between the two officers. Jean’s eyebrow rose minutely.</p><p> “Such a pale imitation to your own. Satellite-Officer Vicquemare’s petty jealousy is infuriating. You should put him in his place,” Authority scoffed. </p><p>Kim cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders, “so, do we have a debriefing this morning?”</p><p>And with that, the spell was broken. Jean straightened his back and leaned out of the doorway, waving Kim inside. “That’s right,” he said, professional and cold, “better grab a seat. It’s an… Interesting one.” Kim nodded and stepped into the bullpen. Judit, who stood behind Harry’s desk, smiled as soon as she saw him, sipping at another cup of coffee. She was wearing a spring green pants suit, a surprising change of pace from the reds and blacks she had worn during the remaining days of winter when Kim was first getting to know her. Harry himself looked as put together as he might be able to manage, but his usually lax grin had been replaced with a contemplative frown. He was prodding at a fat new case file on his desk, lost in thought. Kim hummed a greeting to both of them and walked over to his own desk to pull over a wooden chair and settle on. </p><p>Jean had taken to shouting down the stairwell now, barking, “McLaine! Torson! No matter how much you wish the contrary we are <em> not </em> paid to stand around and smoke all day. Asses up here <em> now.” </em></p><p>“Morning, Kim,” Harry said as if he just realized Kim had arrived. He smiled wide and reached over to slap a warm hand onto his shoulder. Kim forced a meaningless smile.</p><p>“Good morning, Detective.”</p><p>“He’s tired. He didn’t get much sleep last night. And he’s worried about something— he can’t stop looking around,” Composure whispered, “smells like whiskey too, has he been drinking?” Kim licked his teeth and narrowed his eyes and saw that, yes, Harry’s eyes were wandering from him, to Jean, to Judit.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Kim asked, perhaps too suddenly. </p><p>“What?” Harry leaned back, eyebrows furrowed, “uh, alright as I can be, right?” He laughed. A farce. Kim wanted to press the issue, to maybe even ask about any dreams Harry might have had, but both of their attentions were pulled to Jean and the two new arrivals, fresh from their smoke break. McLaine and Torson were like the two opposite ends of an evolution chart, one small and neat and bright as a firecracker, the other hulking and imposing and enjoying all of the space he managed to take up. Next to them, with his rumpled gray suit and fine, smoke-colored hair, Jean looked like a smudged impression of a man.</p><p>“Remember those two cases that went cold about two weeks back— MADAM GOLDILOCKS and ALLEYWAY LEGS?” Jean started, pressing his fingers into Harry’s desk as everyone gathered around. Kim remembered those two cases clearly— they were technically his first assignments. MADAM GOLDIELOCKS was an investigation into the gruesome murder of a relatively new model, Missy Maeve, whose head had been left on top of a pile of garbage, where the rest of her body had been stuffed. Harry thought of the case name— he had said she had “hair like liquid gold”. ALLEYWAY LEGS was another murder investigation, though they still had no clue who the victim was. Some poor woman had been bisected at the hips and her legs had been left in a thin alleyway in Central Jamrock. Her torso had been discovered at a local dump.</p><p>“Not only do we have a lead for both of them,” Jean said slowly, carefully, beckoning everyone closer as he pulled the file from Harry’s plying fingertips and flipped it open, “but it looks like they’re connected. Got a call yesterday from a janitor at the Faire Éveiller Gallery in Villalobos that some of the new paintings had a peculiar smell to them.”</p><p>“O-kay,” McLaine interrupted, unimpressed, “and weird-smelling paintings connect two vastly different murders, how exactly?”</p><p>Jean scowled, “If you let me finish, McLaine,” he pulled two images from the case file and slapped them onto the desk. Everyone leaned in, and Harry let out a breathy laugh.</p><p>“No way,” he said, “no fucking way. Are those our girls?” Kim leaned in closer and saw, with sudden dawning disgust, that he was looking at two stylistic oil-painted depictions of the victims of MADAM GOLDILOCKS and ALLEYWAY LEGS. The camera flash smoothed away most of the details, but Kim could clearly see the horrified, gaping maw of Missy Maeve’s head and the twisted angles of the ALLEYWAY LEGS.</p><p>“Yes fucking way,” Jean said dryly, “I went to check out the gallery yesterday and there were our damsels, immortalized in oil paint. Seems like we have a rather inspired murderer on our hands.”</p><p>“Or an admirer of the murders’ Peripherique coverage…” McLaine mumbled. An air of consideration passed over the crowd, but a single shake from Harry’s head seemed to end that line of thought. McLaine snatched up the photo of ALLEYWAY LEGS and scrutinized it.</p><p>“Any leads so far?” Judit asked and reached to pull the photo of Maeve off the desk to inspect. </p><p>Jean scoffed, “well, I couldn’t get an interview with the gallery owner yesterday, but I have one scheduled for Du Bois and… Kitsuragi to take advantage of,”</p><p>“He didn’t decide on you joining Harry,” Empathy whispered, “Harry wanted you to go with him, wouldn’t budge. Jean wanted to get back into the swing with his partner, but Harry refused.” Kim schooled his expression into smooth indifference despite the spike of panic the shot up his spine.</p><p>“Anyway,” Jean continued, “the janitor said whoever painted them wanted to keep anonymous, and he said he can’t hand over the pieces without the gallery owner’s permission. I think we should pull out those old case files and start from the top. McLaine, Torson, retrace our work with ALLEYWAY LEGS. Minot and I will look deeper into Madam Maeve and her colorful career.”</p><p>“Aye aye, cap’n,” Torson growled with a cheery grin, “guess we’re leavin’ Detective Sober to look at some pretty paintings.”</p><p>“You can just call me Detective Art Critic now, Mack,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve got an <em> eye </em> for all that ‘conneries d'art’. Didn’t I tell you about the time Kim and I–”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” McLaine waved his hand and smacked his lips, “heard all about that stupid case by now, <em> Firewater, </em>get some new fuckin’ material.”</p><p>“<em> Firewater?” </em> Judit glanced up from the photo, smiling in genuine disbelief, “Firewater, Harry? What does that even mean?”</p><p>“It was <em> Firewalker, </em> but–“</p><p>“Can we focus here, brain surgeons?” Jean snapped his fingers, “Harry, you got that ‘interview’ with the gallery owner in an hour. Thinking about gettin’ down to it?” Jean's eyebrows furrowed as he leaned into Harry’s space, and Kim watched a cocky grin flashed across Harry’s face.</p><p>“Human Can-Opener,” Esprit De Corps rumbled. Kim saw a vision of Harry and Jean, younger, broader, shooting question after question at a sweaty-palmed suspect, not even giving him room to breathe. He was reminded of Harry, leaning back on his heels, twisting Joyce around with his endless inquiries, case-based and not. He couldn’t stop the quirk of his lips upward.</p><p>“Whatchu’ smiling about, Kimball,” Torson asked, prodding the side of his head. </p><p>“Fucking nicknames. Fucking pinball. Fucking…” Authority burned behind Kim’s eyes. </p><p>He slapped Torson’s hand away and puffed air out of his nose, tilting his head back, “Keep your hands to yourself, Torson.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, excellent. Stand your ground, take no shit!” Authority cheered.</p><p>“No need to get so damn huffy, damn.” Torson pouted like some petulant child and stepped back and Kim felt a rush of adrenaline at managing to keep out of the 41st’s asinine banter.</p><p>“Shall we, Lieutenant?” Harry groaned as he stood and stretched his back, “we can grab some coffee on the way.”</p><p>“What’s wrong with <em> our </em> coffee, Harrier?” Jean huffed.</p><p>“Well, let’s see here; my sources tell me that it tastes like shit, yeah?” </p><p>Harry pointed at Judit, who brought her mug back to her lips for a hardy sip. “Yeah,” she confirmed.</p><p>“And thus I rest my case. Off we go, Kim.”</p><p>Kim and Harry strode through the bullpen and started down the spiral staircase. Kim, who had once been so used to following Harry as he dashed around crime scenes, found he more often than not took the reigns now. Harry’s leg was still weak and slow, resulting in a rather obvious limp he tried desperately to hide around his RCM colleagues. </p><p>“Nothing macho about letting an injury slow you down,” Physical Instrument whispered, a little secret that Kim was all too aware of. </p><p>“Think that ol’ rust bucket Pryce got us is ready to run? I <em> really </em> don’t want to ask to borrow Jean’s Coupris again,” Harry asked, nonchalant despite the breath wheezing from him. His horrendous tie seemed to be strangling him. Kim was too busy thinking about dreams and voices and that ugly tie to even think of an answer, so Harry pressed on as he usually did, saying, “Kim? Kimbo? Are we taking the Kineema?”</p><p>“Oh. Well, I saw Devaux working on it when I came in,” Kim cleared his throat as they reached the garage level and held the door open for him, “we might be so lucky to finally take it for a spin.” He paused, stared up at Harry, and just before he could step through into the garage Kim pulled the door shut, “Harry, did you have a strange dream last night?”</p><p>“No,” Harry said, quick as a whip, “not that I remember, no.”</p><p>“Liar,” Drama hisses, “he’s lying.”</p><p>“Holding you at arm’s length,” Empathy confirmed, “he’s scared.”</p><p>“Scared of the dream, scared of the voices too,” Inland Empire giggled, soft and crazed, “scared it’s already too late.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Kim asked, breathless and overwhelmed. He didn’t mean to say it out loud.</p><p>“What?” Harry squinted, then pushed open the door and shoved Kim through playfully, “are you worrying about me?” He seemed to beam at this, he liked the attention. Kim pursed his lips and glanced away.</p><p>“Should I be, Detective?” He raised an eyebrow elegantly, poised it like the barrel of a gun, and Harry immediately shied away.</p><p>“‘Course not, Kim,” Harry patted the small of Kim’s back, “no use worrying at all. Now then, coffee?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Needed something creative to do during the new semester. Disco Elysium rocks. The romance will be a sort of backdrop/slow burn. I love pulpy murder mystery stories.</p><p>I kind of wanted to press on Harry's weird supernatural brain shit. I love the lore of the Pale and all of the stuff you can learn from Shivers and EDC, so I thought, why not torture my fav character Kim with it? And here we are. Maybe it'll all make sense one day.</p><p>I hope you enjoy! Expect sporadic updates.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>All of Villalobos watched as Kim’s rusted and roaring Kineema rolled down the tight-packed streets. Most of the buildings around them leaned against one another in messy, brown-tinged rows. From them, housewives leaned against balconies, smoking and cradling swaddled babies, and drunks tossed glass bottles at parked motor carriages. Spring was finally in full swing for Revachol, so there were plenty of children weaving through the alleyways and lamp posts that lined the street. Sunlight peeked through the thick gray clouds, a promise of warmer days to come. Through the reek of smoke and oil omitted by the MC Kim could almost catch a whiff of something dark and floral.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mazda’s poppy garden,” Shivers whispered, “Just beyond the beige-brick wall he built all those years ago. The bright red flowers bloom under the Revachol sun, ripe for harvest, fragrant as the sweetest of perfumes. You can feel the wind that flutters through them as if you too are just a mere flower among millions, waiting for a chance to be useful. They are nearly untouchable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you?” A voice Kim couldn’t place growled deep in the cracks and creases of his brain. Unknowable, animalistic, frightening. He shivered and blasted Speedfreak FM louder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The streets began to widen and clear as they neared the gallery. Orange flags waved on passing balconies and storefront windows, depicting white-smudge roosters that danced in the wind. Kim took note of the occasional old brick apartments surrounded by newer concrete and wood-paneled housing projects while Harry sipped at his thermos. The radio crackled between them, heavy with bass and drums and shrieking voices, and every so often Harry would pound the dashboard of the Kineema in glee, playing an invisible drum set along with any of the songs he might recognize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim was no step closer to asking Harry about the dream. In fact, every time he was gearing up to ask, Harry would expertly draw his attention away from the issue with some observation or foreboding mumble. From the Frittte coffee station to the traffic-packed ride into Villalobos, Harry danced around Kim’s gentle prodding like some Marietti master. It was infuriating enough for Kim to stop trying altogether.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But this might be ideal, for now at least,” Esprit de Corps whispered, “why bring up personal matters right now? You’re on a job, you’ve people to impress, pride to uphold, crimes to solve. Save it for later, officer.” Kim nodded once to his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Harry watched him with a strange, confused look in his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like what you see?” Harry asked. Kim snorted and adjusted the mirror to catch Harry’s full expression: the regular lazy smile, the intensely curious glean in his otherwise dead eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look downright sexy, glancing his way, handling this ornery Kineema like a dream. So cool, Kimball,” Savoir Faire commented. Kim couldn’t help but preen over the compliment– though he couldn’t decide if that was narcissistic or not.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” Kim said and turned the mirror back towards himself, “just thought I was looking pretty </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool</span>
  </em>
  <span> driving this death machine around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, Kim, you always look cool,” Harry sipped his coffee again to hide a teasing smile, “cool as ice. Cool as hell.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s trying to butter you up– he feels bad for shutting you down before,” Empathy said matter of factly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cool as hell, hmm?” Kim leaned back in his seat. The leather creaked around him. The conversation shriveled and died when Harry burst into another air guitar solo as a young man’s voice screeched over the airwaves. When the song ended, Kim turned the volume down and said, “Detective, why didn’t you take this trip with Officer Vicquemare?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, he was expecting another dream question,” Composure noted, “look, he’s squirming.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry had turned a little pink. He tugged at his tie, a frivolous and distracting effort that only aided in ruffling himself further. The tie stood out medical-ward-yellow against Harry’s rosy throat. God, where did he buy those ugly ties? Kim almost wanted to change the subject, but Harry cut in with a nearly inaudible, “he’s still pissed at me. And if he’s not, he’ll find a reason to be pissed at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s the case. He’s worried about you,” Kim considered his own words for a moment, then followed up with a warm, “they’re all worried about you. Whatever memories you had with the others before THE HANGED MAN case still haven’t come back, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” Harry glanced down at Kim’s chin, then flicked his eyes back up to stare pointedly at his nose, “right. I… Guess that makes sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry never fully looks you in the eye. Never looks anyone he cares about in the eye. Why?” Empathy seemed puzzled. Kim rolled his eyes, realizing with dawning dread that these voices in his head weren’t all-seeing, all-knowing. How utterly inane. If they had to exist, the least they could do is be completely useful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, not like you’re some perfect human specimen,” Volition snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, isn’t that the problem?” Authority hissed, “imperfection breeds insubordination.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim gritted his teeth. “Besides, I think Officer Vicquemare kind of detests me for replacing him,” he said as indifferently as he could manage. Harry stared at him like he had just sprouted another head. “What? You haven’t noticed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I haven’t noticed!” Harry exclaimed, and then burst out into peals of deep, melodic laughter. Kim could barely suppress the shiver that played down his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, baby,” Electrochemistry purred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he jealous of you?” Harry asked through hardy chuckles, “I mean, I just assumed he wanted to babysit me when he asked to tag along, man, that’s hilarious–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can assure you it is </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> hilarious having to deal with his petty comments,” Kim mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s just trying to get a rise out of you, aren’t they all? It’s that macho bullpen banter you love so much.” Harry was filled with obvious mirth. Kim could hardly be annoyed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yes, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>adore</span>
  </em>
  <span> the banter. All ‘I fucked your mom’ this and ‘witness this new penis I have drawn on the case board’ that,” Kim slapped his hand against the steering wheel and sighed, “Maybe just keep your real partner’s feelings in mind, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What, aren’t you my partner too?” Harry whispered, suddenly sounding as fragile as a wind chime. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘I thought you wanted to be my partner, I thought that’s why you joined the 41st, am I really not good enough?’ Is what he meant.” Empathy said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry,” Kim sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “if you want me, you have me, alright? Just… Consider Officer Vicquemare’s feelings a little more.” Harry nodded, quick and quiet, and turned his attention out the window. Kim was reminded of a kicked puppy when he glanced his way, but any thought to reassure him was tamped down by a stronger urge to not indulge in Harry’s attention-seeking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fell back into silence and drove down three more blocks until they both caught sight of an unusually pristine looking building. Tucked between two rust-red brick buildings stood Faire Éveiller in all it’s pretentious glory– sparklingly white and clean and ostentatious with its ribbed pillars and an overhanging roof. An advertisement banner for the current exhibition hung on either side of the wide mahogany doors: GLORY AND GORE OF REVACHOL; AN EXHIBITION!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The exclamation point wagged in the wind, taunting Kim with its unnecessity. Harry glanced his way and snorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s our gallery,” Kim said. Harry turned back to stare at it with obvious apocalyptic interest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>temple,” </span>
  </em>
  <span>he said, “dead muses sleep there, waiting for their gods, waiting for the Gloaming. Sad it won’t survive the fall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can see them, hundreds of ghostly forms, memories of sculptures and paintings piled atop one another, hidden in the basement, the attic, the alley nearby, and when the time comes this too will be another empty void. Another forgotten place. Another hollowed-out space in the universe,” Inland Empire explained, or, well, said in a way that seemed to indicate an explanation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes, exactly,” was all Kim could think to say, pressing just enough juvenile sarcasm into his words to keep from actually agreeing with Harry’s insanity. He parked by the curb and killed the engine, which puffed out one last roar before dying with a shivering hiss. Kim slipped out of his seat and rounded the front of the Kineema, leaning against the hood as he pulled out his notebook and wrote a brief description of the front of the building. Harry, meanwhile, made a beeline straight for the gated-off alleyway between the gallery and the apartment complex to it’s right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Notice something?” Kim called, walking over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re keeping pieces out here, look–“ Harry motioned into the dark, tight alleyway as Kim approached, pointing out soot and dirt-covered statues, broken painting frames, and water-damaged sculptures. Kim and Harry stared glumly at the sad-looking crowd of artwork. They stared right back at the two detectives, a dripping coalition of unloved and unwanted masterpieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might just be some old exhibits they haven’t gotten around to throwing out,” Kim suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some of those look like they’ve been out here for years,” Harry hummed, ever perceptive, “there’s a madam in the far back covered in moss, that usually doesn’t happen over a weekend.” Closer inspection (which involved Harry pushing Kim up to the bars and reaching through to point out the statue) did indeed reveal a serene, clay-gray woman covered in flowering moss. She looked as though she had been standing guard in the alley for centuries. Kim noted the observation in his notebook and nodded towards the door. Slowly, they walked up the marble staircase and pushed through the Faire Éveiller Gallery’s heavy double doors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interior of the gallery was even brighter than the exterior. Marble floors, cut through with veins of black and green sediment, spanned out into an expansive maze of hallways and staircases and closed doors marked with EMPLOYEES ONLY signs. The ceilings hung low and were marred by zigzagging light fixtures which were bright enough to warrant a pitiful groan from Harry. Few people, most dressed in fur capes and elegant white shirts, mingled through the halls. The carpet beneath their feet was tongue red and so plush that Kim was almost afraid he would sink into it and disappear forever.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Another trapped memory in this temple of masterpieces,” Inland Empire agreed, “watch where you step.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A reception desk and a red velvet rope blocked them from officially entering the gallery. The woman sitting behind the desk did not smile at them– one glance at the white rectangles on their chests seemed to be enough to remind her of the snuff paintings still currently housed within the gallery. She looked young enough to be a high schooler, even with her rouged lips and dark-lined eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come to talk to Mr. Devall, officers?” The Receptionist asked in a shy, tired voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right, little lady,” Harry said, leaning on the desk with his usual nonchalance, “have a meeting scheduled for 11:30– we good to go in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m afraid Mr. Devall is already in a meeting with someone, so he might be a moment,” the Receptionist paused, frowning like it was her own fault leaving Kim and Harry in the dust, “would you like to… See the gallery, while you wait for him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Translation: ‘want to check out the murder paintings for free?’” Empathy said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well sure! Sure, that sounds nice, right Kim?” Harry threw him a sidelong smile and Kim nodded briefly, scribbling a few short descriptions and maps of the gallery onto a fresh page. Harry turned back to the Receptionist and leaned in closer, eyebrows raised, “before we go in though, little lady, want to tell us about anything weird you’ve seen around here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weird like snuff paintings?” She shot back softly, glancing to the side as a man and woman who seemed to drip elegance walked by on their way to another statue-lined hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weird like snuff paintings is fine, but anything else of note? Ghosts wandering the halls? Murderers checking out the masterpieces? Or, tell me about yourself– are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> a receptionist or are you shoulder deep in the painting business too?” Harry stared at her with overly ambitious interest. Kim elbowed him in the side gently, a silent plea for him not to interrogate who looked to be a volunteer student.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhm, no? Not really. Nothing weird besides the paintings– and I guess Mr. Devall’s reluctance to take them down is a bit strange,” the Receptionist glanced down at her lap, “and I’m just an, uh, an art history major. I volunteer here for university credits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She tells the truth, sire,” Drama confirmed. Kim was very quickly considering it to be his favorite brain-voice, next to Esprit de Corps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, really?” Harry seemed unimpressed. Kim pushed him toward the velvet rope, giving the Receptionist a polite smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, miss. When Mr. Devall is available please let us know,” he said. The Receptionist nodded and once they were through the velvet rope returned to organizing the stacks of papers on her desk. Harry shoved his hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who thought a place as gaudy as this existed in Villalobos,” he mumbled as Kim guided them down a hall which seemed to house mostly paintings, “I feel too damn poor to walk around in here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agree,” Kim said, pushing up his left glove to check his watch (11:35 a.m), “all this finery makes me feel…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncomfortable?” Harry hummed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Insignificant?” Authority suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ill-prepared for our meeting,” Kim finished, “I feel this Mr. Devall may be a very pretentious man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’ll make for a fun interview— oh wow, look at that, Kim,” Harry pointed to a painting thick with slabs of oil colors. Poppies and red carnations leaped from the canvas with their globbed-on petals and thick stems. In the distance, a man dressed in Revolutionary green trekked a line through the flower field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Glory and gore of Revachol, huh? Most of these paintings seem to have a theme of remembering the old day, the fights, the symbols of the nation now and then. You see—“ Conceptualization was cut off by Harry’s excited rattling off of symbolism within the painting. He seemed more than happy to participate in a real dissection of a real art piece. Kim just nodded along to his explanation and tried not to meet the eyes of anyone else who paused to listen to Harry’s lecture. His fingers twitched minutely, reached for his notebook, and Kim found himself writing another question into the margins of his case notes:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>INQUIRY: WHERE IS THE TRUTH IN AN ARTIST’S RENDITION OF THE PAST?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim stared at his notebook, at the question, and pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth. The truth? Kim looked at the flower field painting again and decided that there was truth in the Revolutionary man’s uniform, truth in the sloping petals of the poppies, truth in the gray sky and distant coast. That was the truth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it?” Conceptualization asked, quiet and thoughtful, like a tap against one’s chin, “or are you only looking at what you can see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kim?” Harry’s face eclipsed the painting, “you with me? What’re you mumbling about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective,” Kim raised an eyebrow, then nodded toward the painting, “what is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>truth</span>
  </em>
  <span> of this painting?” Harry’s eyebrows shot up. Of course, it was usually him asking the more subjective questions during cases. They both weren’t used to Kim Kitsuragi thinking beyond the evident case at hand without prompting. Kim shifted from foot to foot and ran his sweaty palm against his pant leg – his usual reliance on Harry’s unorthodox thinking wavered, and he almost wanted to change the topic, but Harry swiveled around and stared at the art with newfound contemplation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a minute of thought, Harry said, “well, I think instead of a truth, it has a request— do you know what red carnations mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Revolution, rebirth, fighting spirit,” Encyclopedia offered, and so Kim said so out loud. Harry nodded, moving his attention from the flowers to the sky.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And in the clouds, there’s a really faint sketch of an Insulidian Lily, so, I think it's a request– or, better, a calling for the old days,” Harry snorted, “good luck with that, buddy.” Kim closed his notebook and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. A weird weight in his chest pushed down hard, threatening to crush his ribs and grasp hard at his lungs, his heart. Who would have thought being on the opposite end of a Harry-and-Kim-question-conversation would feel so unusual. He nodded once, as pleased as he could be with the answer, and motioned further down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They found the two paintings side by side at the very end of the hall. Both were framed in swirling gray wood and looked to be about as wide as Harry’s wingspan. Missy Maeve’s photo, which was named “Goldflinch”, was much more visceral in person– but ALLEYWAY LEGS’, titled “Gateway to the Void” was down right debauched. A young woman, who had been standing by the paintings when Kim and Harry approached, was struck stupid as she stared at the spread legs and horrific angle of ALLEYWAY LEGS. Kim took note of her blank expression (INQUIRY: WHAT DOES TERROR LOOK LIKE?) while Harry stepped up to stand next to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s fucked,” he said, delightfully undisturbed. The girl shuddered and pulled back, her dusty blue pigtails swinging like pendulums.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry to frighten you, miss,” Kim said, shooting Harry a disappointed eyebrow. He cowered and ducked his head in silent apology. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective Du Bois noticed something,” Esprit de Corps said, “he’s straightening his back, lieutenant–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, little lady,” Harry said to the pigtailed girl, “what’s your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Why do you want to know?” The girl scowled and shoved her tidy hands into her coat pockets. She was round-faced and thick-waisted, and the huge, circular glasses that sat on her nose only helped to make her already huge eyes look even bigger. Her voice was rough, evidence of a life spent protecting herself, and Kim could detect the slightest hint of an Orjanese accent that she was trying and failing to hide behind her lower register. Harry put his hands up in the universal sign for “I come in peace”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just making conversation! I’m Harry, this is my partner, Kim,” he held out his hand, “nice to meet you…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Evi,” Evi shook his hand with obvious contempt, “what, come to see the rumored snuff paintings too?” She asked cooly. Kim noted the tremble in her shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right! Want to hear a secret?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective…” Kim could taste where this was going.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Evi scowled, “let’s see if you can tell me something I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These are </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> snuff paintings. We’ve been investigating the murder of these two girls for a few weeks now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Should we really be telling this a random civilian, officer—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” Evi said, quiet as a pin drop, “I know already, it’s fine.” Kim glanced at Harry, who glanced back at Kim with a knowing twinkle in his eye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to talk about what you know?” Harry prompted, reaching into his back pocket for a cart of cigarettes. Kim reached out and pinched his wrist, trying not to look too much like a disapproving mother. Evi turned toward them, through her eyes stared beyond, down the hall, focused on the few groups of people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s worried. Revealing what she has to say may be more dangerous to her than it seems,” Empathy whispered. Kim reached up to pull Harry aside, but Evi had turned away again. She pulled a notebook from her small purse and scribbled an address onto a sheet of paper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uhm, meet me here, later tonight. I can’t, I just—” Evi’s hands trembled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim took the folded piece of paper and offered her the kindest of smiles he could muster, </span>
  <span>“don’t worry, Evi, we’ll keep in touch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” she sighed, her body visibly sagging in relief, “I.. I gotta go. Good luck, officers.” She nodded, indicating her recognition of the RCM insignia, and then scurried down the hall with her chin tucked against her chest and her bag clutched tight between her arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think she might have been a friend of ol’ ALLEYWAY LEGS,” Harry said as he settled back against his good leg, observing the two paintings with all the intensity of the world’s great art critic. He scratched his chin, arched his neck, almost embodying every other artist type Kim had seen before. Kim turned to stare at the paintings as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They really are beautiful pieces of art,” Conceptualization said, “whoever painted this is quite a skilled artist, probably possessing decades of study and training and inspiration.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s something weird about these paintings. They’re not… Correct,” Visual Calculus’s voice rang out like a gunshot through Kim’s head. He blinked, shocked, and when he opened his eyes again, lines of interest had been highlighted across both paintings. Missy Maeve stared at him, her face contorted in a gory scream, but the lines drew Kim’s attention to the background. A dark, dirty studio lay hidden within the strokes of paint. He could see covered canvases, brick walls, tarp-covered floors, and chains. Moving his attention down to the bottom of the painting, Kim noticed that Missy Maeve’s head was not the only part of her present in the painting. Her frail neck, not yet cut, and her sharp, pink shoulders were almost hidden behind streaks of rusty red paint. Her eyes, now that Kim was close, seemed full of life and glistened like horribly emeralds shoved deep into pink sclera. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not yet… Dissected in this painting,” Kim pointed out, “she was still alive whenever this piece was started.” He wrote furiously in his notebook as his head rumbled with many excited, horrified, and chilling voices.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same with ALLEYWAY LEGS over here,” Harry indicated with a jut of his thumb. Kim’s head swiveled to see that what he thought was a bisection between torso in legs was really just an uncomfortable twist of the spine; ALLEYWAY LEGS was laid out, her chin tipped up to hide her face, her arms chained somewhere off the canvas, and her legs positioned front and center and spread, revealing just the black void that lay beyond. Kim could see that her skin was flushed and dark, and her body language betrayed a moment of terrible restraint. She was so thin, almost skin and bone, and her oaken hair coiled into the darkness, lost to the artist’s vision of the encroaching and devouring background. “I really think they were both alive here, don’t ask me how I know that. Sometime between the beginning and the end of this painter’s process, these girls were killed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And so what is being depicted here, torture?” Kim asked, and Harry shrugged, his eyebrows furrowed in deep, unconvinced thought. Kim, wanting to let him think things through, leaned forward and gave the paintings a curious sniff. He smelled chemical paint, still somewhat wet, and something more metallic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blood?” Physical Instrument asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These paintings were finished recently, they’re still a bit wet,” Kim prodded one of the thick globs that lean off the canvas and pulled his pointer finger away to show the smudge of brown paint left behind, “and there’s… Some of the paint seems different? These parts…” He waved a hand over large swatches of red-brown shadows. Harry hummed, thoughtful, and then he reached out to remove ALLEYWAY LEGS’ frame from the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you doing?” Kim hissed, glancing down the hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Appreciating the art, Kim, what do you think I’m doing?” Harry whispered back, wiggling the frame violently until, eventually, he managed to unhook it from the wall and flip it around. Rust red stains coated the lower half of the canvas, and crusted brown smudges laid all across the wood pegs keeping the canvas stretched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blood,” Kim confirmed, writing down the discovery in his notebook, “then that flat paint could also be blood, maybe from the victims. These should be sent in for examination–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me– excuse me!” A loud, angry voice shocked Harry and Kim out of their investigative haze, “please do not touch the artwork! Sir, put that back!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geez, here comes the cavalry,” Harry hooked the frame back onto the wall and sheepishly stepped behind Kim, which really was no good place to hide seeing as he was nearly a head taller than him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, I know you aren’t paid much down at the RCM but you could at least invest in some etiquette classes, my Innocence.” A man the height of a small Martiniase hut was very slowly squeezing his way down the hall, dodging around the few dwindling socialites that had not been spooked by Harry’s manhandling of the art. He was wide enough to touch either side of the gallery wall with little issue. He was old enough to not want someone to point that out to him. His salt and pepper hair was most certainly at least half fake, and his clean-shaven face betrayed some vulnerability in the way his jaw clenches and relaxes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My apologies, sir, but these pieces of art may be related to an RCM case,” Kim said, placating and calm. The man paused a few feet away to dab his forehead with a silk handkerchief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes well, that’s why I’m here,” he huffed, “I am Abel Devall, owner of this esteemed establishment. We have a meeting scheduled, yes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh,” Kim glanced at Harry, who was staring hard at the top of Devall’s head, “yes, well. If you are ready for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am, I am, this way,” Devall motioned down the hall, still patting his shiny skin, and he turned hard to waddle back down the hall. Harry scoffed and pressed a hand into Kim’s shoulder, squeezing tight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That man’s wearing a toupee,” he whispered, grinning violently. Kim blew air out of his nose to keep from chuckling and wiggled out of Harry’s grasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His toupee told me,” Harry winked and walked ahead, whistling a jaunty tune. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He speaks the truth, milord,” Drama said. Kim shivered, unable to tamp down the anxiety of secret knowledge. He cast one last glance back at the paintings, at the highlighted lines etched deep into the globbed oil strokes, and then he followed the two men down the gallery hall, towards the next step of their investigation.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It's interesting to see how different my writing is between fan content and personal works. I'm not sure why, I think maybe I'm just trying to slide into the headspace of the characters, but that's harder since they're not my own and I'm afraid of messing up.</p><p>Maybe I just overthink things lol.</p><p>Anyway! This piece really just comes to me in waves. Sorry for any mistakes, I'm uploading this before I lose the rest of my night to homework. unedited, I might edit later to fix any wonky sentences, otherwise, I hope you enjoy.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Abel Devall’s office oozed with postmodernist pretension and gold-encrusted veneer. The room was full of marble busts, colorful paintings, family portraits, and signed posters from musicians, artists, philosophers– practically anyone and everyone lived on the stark white walls that surrounded them. One large window shone behind Devall, glistening, recently cleaned, and revealing a tidy Villalobos street that was lined with trees and flowering bushes. The curtains were drawn back, royal red, and Kim swore he could see a figure within the folds and curves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pareidolias,” Inland Empire tittered, “seeing faces, figures, people in the inanimate. Imagination running wild.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no one there,” Volition said, almost placatingly. Kim squinted at the curtains, then glanced across the rest of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gold crown molding surrounded the window frame, the base of the walls, and even the tray of pens that laid beside Devall’s stacks of paper. The rug dipped hard under Kim’s foot and possessed the same intestine red color as the carpet that ran throughout the gallery. Harry had taken a seat in one of the two chairs that were placed in front of Devall’s wide, dark desk. Kim watched him writhe and sink deeper into the seat’s plush lining and decided he was fine with standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Devall himself had easily settled into the elegant rolling chair behind the desk. It fit him like a glove– in fact, he seemed to sink right into every curve and crevice the miniature throne had to offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was most certainly designed to fit him,” Interfacing said, “he seems to have quite a few friends in higher places if these posters and those portraits have anything to say about it. Finding someone to make a custom chair would be a cinch with connections like those.” Kim cleared his throat and stood tall, clasping his hands behind his back. Harry managed to find a comfortable position (elbow on his knee, chin in his hand, back hunched and shoulders rolled forward) and, with a little flourish of his wrist, motioned for Kim to keep an eye out for anything of use.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now then,” Devall said as he leaned forward, pressing his elbows hard into the desk, “Detective Du Bois, Lieutenant Kitsuragi, I suppose we should discuss the elephant in the gallery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got an elephant in this gallery?” Harry asked, slapping his knee. When Devall didn’t laugh, Harry threw his hands up and chuckled for him, “kidding! Yeah, okay, let’s talk about the snuff paintings. We should probably start with the purpose of this gallery.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Purpose?” Devall huffed, already exasperated, “why, to house the amazing art created by our Jamrock visionaries, of course. Villalobos was lacking in culture, anyway.” Every vowel that left his lips was long and heavy, dripping with posh eccentricity. An accent for the elite. Kim hated his voice, his shiny forehead, and his apparent dismissal of all of the Mesque culture that laid just outside the gallery’s door. He turned his attention to Devall's desk as Harry leaned forward to flash his unsettling but disarming grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jamrock visionaries, huh?” Harry mused, dreamy, as if he were trying to match Devall’s wavelength. Kim glanced down at Devall’s desk in the meantime.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing of note, really, besides those papers closest to him. There is an envelope on top that is torn open, and the corner of an extravagantly decorated cheque lays half on the desk. No discernible names or prices. The papers under the envelope are commission contracts, signed by someone with the initials V. V. The contracts are for the ‘Goldflinch’ and ‘Gateway to the Void’ paintings.” Perception pointed out, and Kim winced as he felt his eyes be moved forcibly from one side of the desk to the other. When nothing else drew his attention, Kim pulled his notebook from his pocket and wrote a new unanswerable question (INQUIRY: V. V?). Devall and Harry were talking animatedly about different art forms when Kim tuned back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Khm,” he cleared his throat, throwing Harry a look. Harry settled back, scratching hard at his mutton chops and dragging his eyes over Devall’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, those snuff paintings, ‘Goldflinch’ and “Gateway to the Void’, I feel you realize that they probably shouldn’t still be on display, right?” Harry said, almost lazy in his nonchalance. Devall shifted minutely in his seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yes, but taking them down would be more of a trouble for me than possibly housing paintings depicting already deceased women,” he said, as cold as Kim could think a man could be about murdered women, “I have a contract you see, with the art… artist– taking them down early would void the generous payment he has offered to have them preserved in our halls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you were paid to host those paintings?” Harry seemed confused, “I assumed you were paying the artists? Like, commissions and submissions and stuff, is that not the case?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, for many of the artists it is, but Faire Éveiller has become the apple of Villalobos’ eye lately– many artists come to me asking to have their work presented for certain events,” Devall glanced off to the side, at his wall of philosophers, and then returned to frowning at Harry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harrier shifts forward, bouncing his feet anxiously– one of the ticks he’s picked up after supposedly going dry. He’s antsy. He noticed something in Devall–“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Composure is cut off by Drama, suddenly and firmly, “The master of marble and paint cannot mask his deceit, sire. This contract he possesses is unusual and seductive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many people pay you to be featured in the gallery?” Harry asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Kim was about to pinch him again, but Harry swooped in with a quick, “oh, can I smoke in here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, just open a window.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry nodded to Kim, and he could see the message masked deep within his calm expression: “take a gander at that contract!” Kim rounded the table and fiddled with the window as Harry lit his cigarette and hissed out a stream of smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, people are paying to be featured?” Harry asked again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes,” Devall patted his forehead with a handkerchief, “well, not as many as you might believe. Currently, it’s only the one artist– but most seasons we have at least two or three artists…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim unhooked a curved latch and pushed open the tall window. A gentle breeze whispered through the office, rustling papers and snatching away the plumes of spicy smoke from the cherry of Harry’s cigarette. Devall’s hand shifted against the papers on his desk, securing them, and Kim stole a look at the head of the contract. To his utter surprise, it appeared that most of the document was handwritten– the text swooped and curled irregularly, like whoever had penned it was rather lax about it, not caring much for appearances. He managed to catch two other names within the blocks of legal jargon: Abel Devall and Daz Metha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daz Metha? Never heard of him,” Encyclopedia said thoughtfully, “write that down, probably important.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it is,” Kim whispered. Harry and Devall both turned his way, and Kim bit his tongue, “of course it is… A lovely day outside, I meant.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, beautiful, spring is finally here! Spring is a great time for artists, everything born again, the world flourishing,” Harry beckoned Devall’s attention with wide, arching arm movements. Kim hurried back over to his side, head down and hands held tight and anxious behind his back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes yes, springtime,” Devall nodded, not even half-interested, “shall we cut to the chase, officers? I will simply put it out into the open: I cannot take these paintings down nor allow the RCM to collect them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And why is that, Mr. Devall?” Harry's voice betrayed no anger or confusion, just mere curiosity fathomless as the Revachol bay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As I said, I am under contract, and doing anything against the means of that contract will result in quite a few issues on my end. But I will do what I can to aid the RCM in other ways, officers,” Devall didn’t seem like he was ready to comply with his own words. He leaned back in his creaking, fancy chair and pulled a long wooden box from within his desk. Within laid three fat cigars, musky and rich, expertly rolled, and Devall plucked the center one up and popped it between his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Allow me,” Harry leaned over to light the cigar, keeping his eyes level with Devall’s, who puffed hard until the tip of the cigarette burned hard and began to reek of cinnamon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s contract is it again? The artist’s?” Kim asked, eyeing the bluish smoke that leaked from Devall’s nose with well-concealed contempt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, the artist’s curator– many artists hire middlemen to deal with the logistics of featuring their work. I’ve never even met the actual artist. I… Cannot give you the name of the curator at this time,” he almost seemed annoyed by this as he sucked hard on his cigar, “that is also in the contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Kim said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t mention the curator before,” Logic said, “there are a few holes in his story with this contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s like he doesn’t give a shit,” Authority rumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn contracts, huh? Always mucking up good ol’ fashion conversations,” Harry blew a smoke ring, eyebrows shimmying at an utterly unimpressed Devall, “well, if you can’t talk about this contract, why don’t we talk about something else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like?” Devall glanced at the wall again, quick and concise, a practiced anxiety tick.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about we discuss the two women depicted in those paintings,” Harry tucked a slimy smile behind his hand, sucking in another lungful of smoke, “know either of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can’t say I do,” Devall said sourly. His eyes returned to the wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liar,” Drama confirmed Kim’s rising suspicion, “press him and he will spill what thy desire, milord.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know neither one of these girls?” Kim asked, stepping forward, “wasn’t one of them rather popular in the art scene around here? Missy Maeve, wasn’t she a model?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Devall exhaled a cloud, scowling, his jaw working around a thought fighting to stay unfinished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah, Kim, she was a very talented model, she had an eye for the mystique and conceptual,” Harry said behind his hand and glowing cherry. His eyes twinkled, and Kim settled back and nodded, sensing the start of something grand and stupid. Devall squirmed as Harry continued on, “I hear she was the closest thing to a muse anyone could find. Any artist would’ve been lucky to have such a beautiful model.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A statue come to life, she hung the moon and the stars for whoever had the honor of working with her,” Kim boasted dryly, “and she was reasonable with her payment, a model for the working class.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>model</span>
  </em>
  <span> for the </span>
  <em>
    <span>working class!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Harry slapped his knee and laughed, his eyes full of honest-to-god mirth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was hardly a model, detectives,” Devall scoffed, “she wore tiny skirts and posed in front of cheap cameras just to be pasted up on barroom walls and windows.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you know of her then?” Harry hummed, sipping his cigarette like it was a glass of cool water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, you were right about her being… Popular in Villalobos, as it were,” Devall wiggled his cigar between two fingers, watching the boiling cherry rise and fall. Ash fluttered across his desk, smokey gray snow against plains of wood and grease. Kim tapped his notes and raised an eyebrow as Devall laced his fingers together and leaned forward, “I didn’t know her personally, but I have seen her work for some graffito artists, mediocre sculptors, art porno mags, you know the type. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>degenerate</span>
  </em>
  <span> artists.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that all you know her from, Mr. Devall?” Harry pressed. Again, Devall’s eyes swam to his wall, and finally Kim followed his line of sight, combing his gaze over the various photos and posters until a familiar name caught his eye: Dorothee Devall. Her photo depicted an older woman in a messy art studio, smiling viciously at the camera with her arms elbow deep into a pound of unworked clay. She shared Devall’s pale skin and strong jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His mother? Or, maybe a sister or cousin?” Logic considered, “probably a sister, they look rather similar, and the photo can’t be that old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Every time you mention Missy Maeve, he glances her way,” Composure noted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Devall, is your sister an artist?” Kim asked, straightening his back and scribbling Dorothee’s name onto a fresh line. Devall’s expression shifted minutely, his jaw tensed hard enough for a vein to protrude beneath his toupee. Harry’s full attention was turned on Kim, his own expression unreadable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes… Her time has come and gone, though, she hasn’t been well enough to continue her craft,” He said dismissively, his eyes now turning to his folded hands, “I… Actually,” he sighed, exasperated, “I didn’t want to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Devall, anything you can give us to aid our investigations will be greatly appreciated,” Kim said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dorothee, my sister, she– I believe she was working with Missy Maeve for some time. My sister is a sculptor, so she liked to have live models to inspire her. I haven’t heard from her in weeks, actually, I didn’t want to…” Devall sighed and leaned back, staring up at the flat white ceiling. Smoke peeled against the paint. Kim’s fingers itched for a cigarette of his own, but he placated the urge by inhaling the air around Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Laaaame,” Electrochemistry hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t want to imply she might be involved, we understand, Mr. Devall,” Harry nodded, genuinely kind, “if you have an address or a way for us to contact her, we can clear everything up for you.” Something other than pompous posturing and annoyed arrogance crossed over Devall’s face: relief, or something close to it. He sighed and nodded and reached into his desk to procure a small slip of notebook paper, which he filled with an address and a number. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is her studio address, in Central Jamrock. If she’s not there then call her home number… Though I’m going to assume she’s there,” Devall said, “if you do track her down, please tell her to get in contact with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right-o, Mr. Devall, thank you for this generous lead,” Harry snatched up the paper between two fingers and tucked it into the pocket of his ostentatious spiral-patterned shirt. He stood, stretched his back until it gave a horribly satisfying pop, and reached out to shake Devall’s hand again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim closed his notebook, a striking period to sign the end of the interview, and moved to hold open the door for Harry as he gave Devall a polite nod goodbye.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking through the sturdy halls of the gallery, Harry fell in step with Kim and asked, “what made you bring up his sister?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Kim paused, suddenly overwhelmed by a barrage of voices ringing through every wrinkle and dip in his brain, begging to be known and heard by the man towering over them. They wanted their recognition, and they were louder than any gunshot Kim had been subjected to. He pinched the bridge of his nose and held up a finger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> tell him about this, he’ll think you’re crazy!” Volition called out over the chatter, a thunderclap in the middle of endless screaming rain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you know who did this to you?” Half Light growled, “keep it hidden or you’ll never be respected or feared again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if he can help?” Empathy whispered, small and frightened, “what if he… What if this is what’s wrong with him?” Kim’s fingers twitched again, and he reached instinctually for his notebook. Harry watched with furrowed brow as he pulled his pen free and wrote a new question into the margin of his case notes:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: ARE THE VOICES RESPONSIBLE FOR HARRY’S ECCENTRICITY </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would explain a lot– the talking to inanimate objects, his incredibly accurate hunches, the lifeless glare of his eyes, the horrifying dream that he just refused to talk about. Kim always assumed Harry was just the wreckage of some poor sad man at first but now, plagued with his own uncertainty, everything was beginning to fray at the edges. Something wasn’t right with both of them, and Kim had to unravel this mystery somehow. Questions without answers would solve nothing– Kim sighed and readied himself to be up front until he caught his own eye in a nearby window. His reflection stared back, eyeless and grinning, and Kim faltered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even considering the notion to ask Harry anything related to voices in his head inspired an aching, gnawing fear deep within Kim’s bones. A fear that he would actually be alone in this insanity. A fear that somethings happen without reason.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could really just be insane now, insane enough to consider losing his mind to be a mystery, at least.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kim?” Harry waved a hand in front of his face, “Kim? You keep spacing out today, are you alright?” His concern was practically oozing and pooling between them. Kim’s reflection shifted, matched his vacant stare, and something in him seemed to settle. A drum beat deep within his chest and rang between his ears. His heart and brain screamed for serotonin. Kim shook the voices away and smiled, a private little secret meant only for his partner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine. Uhm. His sister– I noticed he kept glancing at the wall where he had all of those portraits and pictures and I noticed her name, Devall. I assumed it must have been connected somehow,” Kim steadied his fluttering heart, “it seems my hunch was correct, huh, detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh, yeah,” Harry scraped his fingers through his hair, chewing at the remaining butt of his cigarette, “yeah, well, good eye, lieutenant.” He nodded down the hall and limped on, and Kim smiled fondly despite himself as he followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A momentary interview with the janitor who called in the paintings, Carl Torres, gained them no further leads until Harry decided to bring up Dorothee Devall. They had all settled against a blank wall as the clock ticked over into the afternoon, Harry with a second cigarette lit and Carl with a hand grasped tight around a dry mop. Kim stood before both of them, waiting for something worth writing down to fall from Carl’s rather pretty full lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Mr. Devall’s sister!” Carl drawled, his voice thick with a warm Mesque accent, “she used to come around often, but I think she and the owner had a, a, lucha, a fight– a few weeks ago. I didn’t want to pry, ay? But I could hear Mr. Devall sayin’ she shouldn’t be involving herself with the locals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The locals?” Harry laughed, “well, he didn’t seem like a very open-minded man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl smirked, his weathered face creaking like rust, but he shook his head, “I don’t think he meant it in that way, compadre, Villalobos has got it bad with La Mazda and La Puta Madre… I think the sister might be a customer, see?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think she’s in with a gang?” Kim asked, surprised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I know Mr. Devall doesn’t keep that side door locked and guarded for just regular cabrónes,” he shrugged, and then the twinkling of glass shattering drew their attention down the hall. A woman in a tight white dress stared down at a shattered glass that may have once been full of white wine. Kim watched a dark stain seep across the blood red carpet, turning it pitch dark and endless. Another void in the world crafted in alcohol and shattered pieces.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds familiar,” Conceptualization jeered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Carl sighed and pushed off the wall, slapping Harry on the shoulder, “the work never ends, aye, brother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye. Thanks for the info, Carl, take it easy,” Harry lifted his cigarette in a stylish farewell and, once Carl was down the hall, whispered to Kim, “guess we know what all that art in the alley is for.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Kim raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re guards. Keeping an eye out. Looks like Mr. Devall is having some trouble with one of the local gangs, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guards…” Kim frowned, mostly surprised that this was apparently another small mystery Harry wanted to solve, “I don’t see what a statue can do as a guard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Imagine seeing one in the dead of night, would you still try and do whatever illegal act you were there to commit?” Harry waggled his cigarette between his lips, “regardless, I guess our next step is tracking down Ms. Devall.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agree, she’s our only lead so far, besides Evi,” Kim closed his notebook and clasped his hands behind his back, “shall we, detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We shall— oh, and Kim… Do you think maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can drive th–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, c’mon Kim! It’s not even as nice as the old one–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Central Jamrock rolled like the sea in the midday sun. The radio blasted old disco (a choice Kim sourly agreed to after Harry’s puppy-dog eyes broke him down completely) and Harry was wailing along like some sorrowful beast. It was decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> very disco, but neither of them would say such a thing. There was an unspoken rule about motor carriage radio sing-alongs: judge not and be not judged, because that is definitely the least disco thing one could do. Despite his postured dislike of Harry’s singing and the groovy tunes beating over the speakers, Kim’s fingers tapped along on the steering wheel, keeping a steady beat. Outside the Kineema skyscrapers soared and the battered populace of Jamrock sought out lunch and places to sit in contemplative silence during their breaks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A left here,” Harry cried over a heavy synth solo, pointing to a thin, one way street between two towering apartment buildings. Kim noticed he didn’t even bother to check the map; Harry just simply knew every single one of Jamrock’s corners and alleyways and faceless buildings. They were linked, somehow, some way, and Kim found that such a fact made him profoundly jealous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Judit contacted them halfway through the drive, interrupting one of Harry’s infamous guitar solos. “Guys, found some interesting stuff about Missy Maeve you might want to hear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?” Harry straightened up and leaned toward the radio, holding the receiver between the two of them as Judit shuffled papers into the microphone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Jean managed to get something new out of her roommate– apparently, she was a bit of an addict. I found used speed bottles and some Pyrholidon underneath the apartment’s floorboards. I’m surprised you hadn’t thought to check down there, Harry.” Her voice betrayed a tiny bit of pride; Judit was pleased as punch to sniff something out before Jean and Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pyrholidon? Where would she get that?” Harry scowled. Carl’s mention of The Mazda and La Puta Madre crept up the back of Kim’s spine like a ghostly hand, a reminder that things may be bigger than they seem.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well… She did spend a lot of time in Villalobos,” Kim hummed, sliding a hand over the steering wheel. Harry’s brow furrowed as he considered this fact, and Kim knew they were both thinking the same thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway! I thought that might be useful for you two! Where were you heading again?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To visit Mr. Devall’s sister,” Harry grinned into the mic, “we’ll debrief at the station tonight. Keep up the good work, Minot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with a final, “yes sir!” Judit’s voice vanished into the crackling sea of radio waves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun slanted through the narrow street, casting rays of light across the occasional twisted tree and anxious-looking civilians. Eventually, the Kineema was the only bustling thing left on the street as they turned onto a dead-end lined with townhouses that had been built sometime in the last three years. They leaned over the motor carriage like massive, silent judges, watching as Kim pulled up to the curb and flicked off the engine. A cursory scan of the street located the apparent studio as the final door of the street, a bright white gateway embedded into a brownstone goliath of a building. Kim dropped from the motor carriage and met Harry on the sidewalk to gawk at the otherwise unassuming townhouse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think she’s in?” Harry asked, lighting another cigarette. The windows seemed black compared to the shiny gray sky of Revachol. Kim sniffed loudly and opened his notebook, confirming the address one last time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> in, quick, look up!” Perception snapped. Kim’s neck nearly cracked as he turned his eyes up to the second-floor window. The drapes shook, a shadow stared out from the enveloping darkness, a pale hand illuminated by the afternoon sunlight. Kim elbowed Harry and nodded towards the window, earning a hunter’s smile from the Human Can Opener who has found another can to open</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good eye, lieutenant,” he patted the small of Kim’s back, once, twice, and then strode off to ring on Ms. Devall’s doorbell. Kim regained his faltering composure before following.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two minutes of relentless doorbell ringing eventually garnered results: the door cracked open and a pale gray eye stared out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re with the RCM?” A frail voice whispered, full of disbelief, “who sent you? Abel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s right, madam, he’s worried about you,” Kim started, calm as can be, “and he said that you were working with a… Recent victim, Missy Maeve.” The woman breathed out loudly, her voice as soft and shaking as the spring air around them. Harry stood aside, biting his tongue, and, after the gray eye scanned Kim one last time, the door opened fully. In the doorway stood a tall, rail-thin woman. Her silver hair hung over her face like a veil, greasy and long and curling into feathered wisps by the time it reached her chest. She was as pale as one could be, white enough to be made of marble, but her strong jaw and eyes full of vitality assured Kim that she was not just some walking art piece.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ms. Devall–“ Harry started, but Dorothee rose her hand immediately to silence him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Call me Dorothee. Come in, come in, before someone sees.” She ushered them inside and turned back to lock her door four times in a row. Her hand rapped against the wood after, five times, and then she pointed to a single lit room down at the end of the shadowed hall, “wait there I… I’ll make some tea.” And she drifted up a set of stairs parallel to the front door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hall was dusty and full of boxes, which made walking through the dark a whole ordeal. By the time Kim tripped over a second box of sealed clay he was fed up with the dark. Harry offered him an arm and, with a little huffed laugh, led them both into a spacious studio room, lit mostly by windows. The floor was covered in a loud white tarp, and the walls were perhaps once a similar color, but time around pottery wheels and saws and clay seemed to have turned them a dusty gray. Statues leaned against the wall behind Kim and Harry, some staring out the windows and others covered by heavy sheets and blankets. A  work desk covered in papers laid immediately in front of them, and beside that, a large pottery wheel with an unfinished and nearly bone-dry vase leered their way. Harry whistled, impressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now this is an art studio,” he said, obviously an observational genius.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Incredibly astute, detective,” Kim hummed as he walked the perimeter of the room, glancing at the uncovered statues. Beautiful women and men stared back, smiling, forever trapped in a moment of carved bliss. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look closer… The one, in the back, covered in the pink blanket. Look under there–“ Inland Empire’s whisper cut off as Dorothee appeared in the doorway. Her calloused hands were tightly clutching a polished silver tray, which balanced a teapot and three mix-matched mugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t have many seats in here, sorry,” she rasped and approached her work desk, shoving papers to the floor with little regard for organization, “I hope you like echinacea.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Echinacea is wonderful, thank you, madam,” Harry strode over and lifted a mug, smiling brightly, “how have you been recently? Your brother said you haven’t been to see him, he’s worried, but I’m sure you got that already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes yes yes, Abel is always worried when all his pieces aren’t where he can see them,” Dorothee grumbled, slurping her tea, “I’ve been here, working as you can see, trying to make my next masterpiece of what have you but– it’s all worthless, really. Worthless.” Her voice shook again, like wind through branches, creaking and croaking and sighing. Kim considered her gaunt, tense face and noted with some surprise that she might be under the influence. He leaned in close to get his mug and tea and attempted to catch a whiff of alcohol on her breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing. Her mouth is dry though, and her eyes red-rimmed, like she had been crying. She sways whenever she moves, and she watches the shadows dance from the sun rays when she thinks Harry is not looking,” Perception whispered, “probably high. Tread cautiously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The pink sheet, the pink sheet, something important is under the pink sheet,” Inland Empire rasped endlessly below everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear that, madam,” Harry said, forcibly dragging Kim back to the surface with a tap on the hip. He glanced back and met Harry’s impenetrable gaze, which shifted from Kim, to Dorothee, back to the pink sheet. He noticed something as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call me madam, please, it makes me feel old,” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dorothee, then,” Harry said merrily, “now, we’ve heard you’ve worked with the model Missy Maeve before. Was this within the past month?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” Dorothee’s eyes dimmed, just a tad. Kim took a step back toward the covered statue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When was the last time you worked with Missy Maeve and what did you work on?” Harry continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was working on life sketches, she happened to be around for cheap so I hired her. I last saw her maybe five or six weeks ago, I think,” Dorothee shrugged and turned to stare out the windows, “that’s all we really knew of each other, just for work. Worthless…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim peddled backward until his back pressed against the solid form of a marble man. He turned on his heels and inspected the pink sheet, standing on his tiptoes to get an optimal angle. The statue was short, and possibly quite detailed seeing as the sheet had fallen over to form something that resembled wild, curled hair. Inland Empire urged him on, itched under his skin, and Kim realized that this was, in fact, his intuition begging to be followed. He could feel Harry’s eyes following him, confused, maybe, but he wasn’t about to stop Kim from working. He kept up the questioning with Dorothee, who grew more and more despondent. Kim reached out and pressed a finger against the sheet and found that it radiated warmth and fragrant laundry detergent.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This sheet was recently machine dried,” Logic dictated, “which meant she must have thrown it over this statue very, very recently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See her, see her, pull it off!” Inland Empire begged, and with that final push Kim hooked his finger into the sheet and ripped it from the statue. Dorothee and Harry both fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Kim felt rather than heard one of the mugs shatter behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop– get him away from that!” Dorothee cried, her voice cracking. Kim didn’t turn to see her expression; instead, he found himself face to face with a near-perfect marble replica of Missy Maeve. Her wild hair flew behind her as if she were trapped in an eternal wind storm, and her large eyes were half-lidded and warm with emotion. She regarded him with so much pure love that he almost felt bashful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This looks like much more than a life drawing, Dorothee,” Kim said, still calm, though he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Marble Missy Maeve. She smiled serenely, completely unaware that her living counterpart laid disfigured in an RCM morgue. Inland Empire chittered on and on about care and beauty and appreciation. Harry approached from behind and crossed his arms, humming in agreement. Kim finally managed to break the spell and turn back to the enraged visage of Dorothee, his own expression lax with a coy smile. “Perhaps we should start this interview over, yes?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew, time to get some interviews in. I'm always bad with ending chapters. It's the impatience again!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dorothee stood beside one of the open windows within her dusty studio, eyes focused on a point far beyond what Harry and Kim could see. The detectives stood on either side of the immaculate bust of Missy Maeve and waited, calm as can be, for Dorothee to return from her mind. All of the tea had already grown cold from all of the waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim took the time to marvel at the marble bust again. Missy Maeve’s head, neck, and shoulders jutted out of a thick block of pearly white stone. Her head was tilted, as if she were listening to a song she liked, and her expression was so detailed and gentle that she looked about ready to start breathing and talking and living with then. Kim touched her hair, gloved fingers squeaking against rough edges, and his mind couldn’t help but be surprised that he was unable to glide his fingers through the strands. Harry watched Marble Missy’s face with a blank expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong, detective?” Kim asked, more out of habit that an arbitrary wish to know. Harry continued to stare, unhearing, just like Dorothee. His lips moved minutely, forming silent and quick words. Kim’s forehead creased with worry. “Detective Du Bois?” He asked again, slightly louder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s talking to Missy, leave him be,” Inland Empire said matter-of-factly. Kim scowled, and having sensed his disappointment in such an answer Inland Empire continued on: “did you think hearing us would let you understand Harry better? It won’t. We aren’t him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> not him.” Kim stared at Harry staring at the inanimate marble bust and felt, oddly, like he was the third wheel. He pushed away from the bust and approached Dorothee, who finally flinched. Back to the land of the living.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t kill her,” was the first thing she thought to say. Kim kept his expression smooth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean to imply you did, Dorothee,” he said, pulling out his notebook, “I simply ask that you are honest with us from now on when questioned about your relationship to the people of interest in this case.” Softer, gentler, he added, “we want to bring her killer to justice, Dorothee, and you can help us do that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” Dorothee ran a hand down her face, dragging down delicate wrinkles and scars with her thick palm, “okay. Missy was… Well, we started working together almost two years ago. She… Fuck, she was my muse.” Dorothee’s laugh was colder than any Revachol winter, freezing the entire room with its aching sadness. Kim nodded, his expression neutral, and she continued on, “I loved her like a daughter, really–“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She couldn’t have any of her own,” Empathy whispered. Shadows, memories, peeled across Kim’s vision. From the bust of Missy Maeve a girl in a flowing smoke dress danced through the studio and sang. The shadow of Dorothee stood to the side with an easel, sketching in charcoal and singing along, her wrinkled face alight. A voice breezed past Kim’s ear: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Toujour gai, toujour gai, toujour gai – I sing all my troubles away.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“And she was so… Energetic. I couldn’t help but sculpt her over and over again. Missy was my friend, dammit. I didn’t kill her but– but it’s my fault she’s dead.” Dorothee did not cry, but her old face sagged further, and she turned hard to rip her chair from beneath her desk and fall into it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean it’s your fault?” Harry said, surprising both of then. His somber expression tugged hard at Kim’s heart– his curiosity writhed. Dorothee, meanwhile, looked monotonously heartbroken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some nights… When I was sculpting or sketching or just taking Missy out on the town we would…” Dorothee bit her lip, her eyebrows downturned into a look of enraged pity, “you know, party.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Party?” Kim asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Party.” Harry agreed, solemnly. Kim knew what “partying” entailed by why, oh why, didn’t anyone say “take a copious amount of drugs” anymore?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We would be on Boogie Street or in Villalobos and we would buy from whoever was selling.” Dorothee pinched and played with the callouses on her fingertips, Kim noted this with a raised eyebrow as she continued, “after doing that for so long, though, you get messy. You forget to pay or– or you make people upset.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like The Mazda,” Kim said, and Dorothee screwed her eyes shut, teeth clenched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like The Mazda, yes. I think– we had an outstanding debt, one neither of us could pay and– and I think he might’ve–“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sent for Missy,” Harry strode forward to stand level with Kim again, scratching his chin, “and have you had a run-in with The Mazda’s men?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once before, they were trying to ‘open my door’.” Dorothee laughed again, crueler now– a laugh that suited her witch-like face, “I told them I wasn’t scared of them, that if they come around again I’ll call the RCM– not that I really would, no offense.” Her eyes shone and Kim was reminded of Cindy the Skull, pestering them from her balcony. He shifted from one foot to the other as Harry grinned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“None taken– but, you have had a run-in. Do you think Missy’s death was a response to what you said?” Harry’s words were surprisingly cruel. Kim glanced his way and felt Empathy clutch at his tongue– but before he could say anything to soothe the burn Dorothee nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think The Mazda himself killed her but– she was a sign, for me… No, not just for me,” her expression hardened, “you’ve seen the painting I take it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, we have,” Kim said somberly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a message,” Dorothee explained. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A message?” Kim frowned. His brain whirred like an engine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A message for the damned,” Conceptualization offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A message for people like Missy and Dorothee, a message for people who owe money,” Logic said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A secret message, a secret you’re already unraveling, a message for people who underestimate the maker,” Inland Empire babbled. Kim couldn’t help but feel these were all the same thing, just different shades, like a color palette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mazda probably paid big money for that painting to go up,” Harry said, breaching the surface to pull Kim back outside himself, “it’s to show people who mess with him and who know the victims that they won't hesitate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly,” Dorothee rubbed her temple, “this is a mess. An art society mess.” She laughed again, “it’s what all these drugged out conceptual fucks get for wasting their money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The art world seems real corrupt, sad really, I do really like visiting all those galleries,” Harry said, almost offhandedly. Dorothee smiled at him and raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you so interested, detective?” She still looked stricken and sick, pale even as the sinking afternoon sun cast her in rays of gold.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry rubbed the back of his head, bashful, “a bit! I’ve been into </span>
  <em>
    <span>high concept </span>
  </em>
  <span>works for a few months.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, if I’m not dead by the end of this investigation, perhaps we can get together for a gallery date.“ She winked and Harry laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be great!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Khm,” Kim cleared his throat, “do we have more questions for Dorothee, detective?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, yes– so you’ve seen the paintings right?” Harry asked and Dorothee nodded, “great. Do you know who the other victim is? A name or an address or even a description would really help us out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh… I’m sorry, I don’t know who that was. I assumed she was another thorn in The Mazda’s broad, broad side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Motor carriage tires squeal, slamming into the curb. Someone shouts, just outside the townhouse,” Perception hissed. Kim’s entire posture shifted, and he turned his head towards the studio door. Harry lifted a finger to his lips to quiet Dorothee and reached for his holster. “Steps on the sidewalk, steps on Dorothee’s stairs… Someone is jiggling the doorknob. Someone is trying to get into the house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective, I think–“ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One step ahead of you, lieutenant,” Harry whispered, “stay with Dorothee, I’ll go see who our mystery visitor is.” Dorothee stood, her hand immediately grasping a long, metal, square-tipped tool from her desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim frowned, "are you sure that's a good idea, detective? Going in alone? We should... God." It was impossible to think. Calling for backup meant rushing to the Kineema, but that also risked either of them getting jumped by whoever might be in the hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"We don't have many options, Kim," Harry whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Detective," Kim started, but Harry shook his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm going in, lieutenant. Watch over the civilian," Harry commanded. </span>
  <span>Kim moved to stand in front of her, nodding his agreement despite everything in his body burning with ill omens. Harry’s snakeskin shoes squeaked against the tarp, but he opened the studio door with quiet ease and peered out. The front door was half-open. No one stood beyond it. Harry carefully shut the door behind him as he left, and Kim’s heart began to thunder like a great beast.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything was quiet. The two of them waited, and waited, and still, nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, above them, there was a crash and a bang and someone cursed. Four consecutive thumps echoed somewhere beyond them, the stairs maybe, and then, again, quiet. Kim felt his stomach coil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh god, he’s dead,” Logic said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t know that,” Volition snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut. Up.” Kim hissed, ignoring the sidelong glance Dorothee threw him. He rolled his shoulders and approached the door silently, pressing his ear to the wood. The hollow sound of nothing blew beyond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Dorothee sucked in a breath. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said ‘dead’ before, huh,” Dorothee whispered, sounding more annoyed than afraid. Kim threw her an exasperated look. “Detective, please, I’m sixty-four, I don’t really have anything else to joke about but death.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But she doesn’t want to die,” Empathy said. Kim noticed her clutching her makeshift weapon tight and resigned himself to protecting this woman with his life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have a back door? If we can get out to our Kineema I can take you to the station– you’d be safe there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about your friend?” Dorothee balked, “he would be alone.” Fuck. Of course, she was a bleeding heart artist. Kim gnawed on his bottom lip. Dorothee, meanwhile, glanced at a white-painted board leaning against the left wall, “I would prefer to not let another man die for my sake.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I cannot leave you alone, Dorothee,” Kim hissed, “I can’t risk it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can stay in here, detective– the door has a lock, you know. And I have more than enough material to barricade myself in. And, worst-case scenario, the backdoor is behind that board.” Dorothee’s smile was vicious, “trust me, detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ma’am…” Kim swallowed and glanced at the door. It was too quiet, everywhere, too damn quiet. Even his brain was silent, allowing him ample time to wish for the voices to start shouting plans like they seemed to enjoy doing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s Dorothee to you, detective,” she grinned, “go, and if you need my help, just stomp your feet or shout,” Dorothee winked and Kim felt like he was about to do something very, very stupid. He unholstered his issued weapon and carefully opened the door and peered out. Slanted shadows cut through the hall. The door drifted shut behind him and he heard the tell-tale click of a lock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking as quietly as he could manage, Kim made it to the end of the hall and found the heaping mountains of a knocked-out man. No sign of Harry, yet. Something in Kim relaxed a tad. The man’s red bandana and bowling shoes indicated an affiliation to a gang, and his soft groaning indicated he could come to at any moment. Moving quick, he grabbed his handcuffs and the man’s limp arm and cuffed him to the stairs metal banister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There, upstairs, voices,” Perception suddenly said. Kim’s head snapped to stare at the dark mouth of the upper floor. There was a scuff in the wall– someone had been thrown against it. The man at his feet, probably. Kim stepped over the criminal and carefully scaled the steps up to the landing. He could hear whispers, pleading and cursing and soft, low laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A door with a sizable crack in it stood immediately to his left, closed tight. The voices came from within. Kim steeled his nerve, his jaw tight as he clenched his teeth to keep from shouting out for Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A single kick would knock this bad boy down,” Physical Instrument hummed, “why not give it a whirl, torque dork?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep a cool head– Harry could be in trouble,” Composure rushed to add.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> in trouble. Kick the door down,” Logic dictated, and so Kim did. He leaned back and planted the sole of his boot into the wood, splintering the crack further, and the door swung open with a cacophonous bang. He held up his pistol, finger flush with the trigger. Every atom in his body crackled with electricity. He was pure energy, a being of light and gunpowder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A barren study stood beyond the threshold, lit by two large windows and filled with dusty bookshelves and a reading lounge chair. Two bodies moved within the room at the sudden crash– and then Kim was face to face with Harry Du Bois at knifepoint. The gangbanger behind him bared his teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You put that gun down, copper, and your buddy here will get to keep his neck hole-free.” Kim scowled, keeping his stance upright, weapon trained on the man behind Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you alright, detective?” He asked, slow, trying to keep his face devoid of any emotion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry tilted his head back, eyebrows furrow and forehead slick with sweat. “I’ve been better, lieutenant.” A nasty red cut already stood out below Harry’s eye. The gangbanger, meanwhile, looked to be sporting a few black and blues all over his arms and face. The knife caught the light as it pressed against Harry’s throat again, and Kim’s arms spasmed. He could take the shot. He could risk literally everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For him. It’d be for him,” Empathy begged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, it’s a stupid, reckless idea. Put the gun down,” Logic snapped like a slap to the face. Kim sighed and lowered the gun to the ground then raised his hands in the universal pose of “I come in peace”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kim,” Harry hissed, eyes screwed shut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, good,” the gangbanger spat onto the floor, saliva dyed pink, “get in here, fuck the door. Get in here and sit down.” He shoved Harry back against the wall and poised his knife at Kim, his other hand raised like some Villalobos dueler. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? Just sit down?” Harry grumbled, “thought you said you’d be taking care of us nice and quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up, god, shut the fuck up,” the gangbanger turned, knife raised, and Harry cowered back, “keep your fucking mouth shut, you fucking pig.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry’s riled him up,” Composure notes, “he’s not thinking straight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe there’s an opening somewhere,” Physical Instrument agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim took a step forward and the gangbanger turned, vicious, grimacing an enrage grin, “sit, sit, sit. We can do this one at a time, right? The big loud idiot can go, since you were nice enough to drop your gun.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you really shank me to death with that little knife?” Harry said, tilting his head back. The cut on his cheek gushed vibrantly. The gangbanger stared at Harry with wide, empty eyes, and then he turned and slashed a matching cut across Kim’s jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Skin unravels and peels back– warmth oozes down your cheek in waves. Thick, red droplets rain down your chin. He cut deep– that’ll need a stitch or two,” Pain Threshold shouted over the static in Kim’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pain was immense and then completely subdued by adrenaline. Fight or flight or freeze sang through his brain. The voices were horribly silent, so Kim stumbled back, thoughtlessly stomping his feet at the shock, and the gangbanger grabbed him by the collar to keep him from falling out of the room. Harry’s cocky energy was sucked away by some invisible, enraged vacuum. The gangbanger seemed to notice this and he pressed closer to Kim, toying the knife across his unmarred cheek. His gun had been kicked away in the frantic tussle, and now it laid beyond the threshold in the black hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that shut you up, eh?” The gangbanger purred. Kim glanced at Harry, who was watching the knife that was turned towards Kim’s eye. Something dark burned in his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: WHY DOES HE LOOK AT YOU LIKE THAT. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like what, Kim thought, helpless and afraid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: LIKE YOUR DEATH WILL END HIM TOO.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Guess it’s decided then. Congrats, binoclard, you’re up first," the gangbanger sang. Kim’s voice left him in a pitiful squeak as the knife sliced down his cheek and pressed against his throat. Harry made to move forward, then froze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mazda sent you, didn’t he?” Harry hissed. The gangbanger’s expression turned gleeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a genius, huh man? Ace fucking detective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective,” Kim groaned. They had no time for </span>
  <em>
    <span>trees. </span>
  </em>
  <span>His eyes strained to see his gun behind them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mazda sent you to kill Dorothee, so why bother with us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re in the way, pig. This investigation is about to be a dead-end, so you won’t be needed any longer.” The knife tilted, the tip catching on Kim’s collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too low to hit your jugular,” Half Light hissed, “here’s an idea: take that tiny elbow of your’s and jam it into his throat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we move you–“ Logic began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If we </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t move </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’ll die anyway. What’s it gonna be, binoclard?” Half Light snapped. Kim glanced between his gun, the gangbanger, and Harry. Sweat and blood rained from him, soaking into his shirt and pants and the grooved wooden floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beyond the taste of salt in your mouth and the anxiety in your stomach, beyond that, someone moves. There are footsteps, quiet though palpable, behind you,” Perception whispered. Kim’s blood ran cold– the other gangbanger must’ve woken up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Possibly, but–“ Logic was cut off by a sudden, bursting voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Move</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Half-Light screeched, and then Kim was moving. He threw his body back against the gangbanger, grabbing his left fist, and jammed his elbow right into the other man’s throat. The knife slipped against his skin, leaving another deep cut above his collarbone, and then it clattered to the floor. Harry dove to grab the weapon while Kim turned to reach for his gun in the hall. The gangbanger, wheezing and cursing, lurched to grab Kim. They both tumbled into the hall with a loud crash, pooling against the far wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” Kim cried as the gangbanger snatched his arm and hair, trying to pin him down. Legs and arms and hair and spit and blood tangled. The gun was somewhere below them. He wrapped one hand around the gangbanger’s wrist and the other in his ratty shirt as fingers wrapped around his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re fucked,” the primordial blackness laughed and leaked into the corners of Kim’s gaze as he tunnel-visioned on the hateful expression above him. He was going to die. He was going to die without truly knowing </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>anyone</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim didn’t want to die</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something crashed over him, and then the hands around Kim’s throat loosened. The man’s face went blank. They stared at each other, empty and frightened, for a long, breathless moment, and then the gangbanger slumped to the side, and above him stood Dorothee, red-faced and triumphant. In her hand was a massive cracked vase. Harry stood just behind her, his face as pale as marble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Dorothee said between anxious, tinny breaths, “should I make more tea?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a shorter and messier chapter, but I really needed to get it out or I would work on it forever (and I cant do that I have a 20 page midterm to start lmao)</p><p>ignore the unearned stakes. i might go back and edit it at a later date. </p><p>anyway! that final lil sequence was inspired by  THIS animatic ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im5Bi8Xw6t0 ) made by Hannah aka Sunny on the disco elysium discord. very evocative. i didn't do it justice but it was fun to write. the song kim hears when imagining missy and dorothee is Toujours Gai sung by the incomparable Eartha Kitt. i hope you enjoy this chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>They had tea and waited for backup in Dorothee’s sparse kitchen. They sat around a small wooden table, Kim and Harry facing the white-painted cabinets and counters, and Dorothee facing the curtained window behind their heads. The lights were off, allowing the spring sun outside to slip in through the crack in the blinds. The time underfoot, also white, looked like coffee cream under the rays. The two gangbangers had been apprehended and handcuffed to the radiator just outside the room. They were, thankfully, as quiet as two enraged, concussed men could be.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry, through his shakes and mumbled worries, had offered to take the Kineema and turn the two gangbangers in, but Kim was mentally sound enough to reward the idea a big fat “no”. So they sat side by side, wounds covered by Dorothee’s hastily offered first aid kit, and they sipped their tea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have sustained some serious damage, binoclard,” Physical Instrument groaned, “that cut on your cheek ain’t gonna stop bleeding ‘till you get some stitches in it— luckily the one on your throat’s just a knick. Those bruises from being strangled, however— you’re gonna feel those for a long while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a while since someone choked you,” Electrochemistry said, unhelpful as always. Memories were offered like unwanted pocket change— late nights with strangers, stained mattress, things completely and utterly unprofessional to consider in this situation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re trying to cope with what happened. We’re trying to help,” Volition said, then, after a freezing pause, added: “well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> are. EC is never trying to really help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is work-place discrimination,” Electrochemistry whined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is inane,” Kim hissed, shocking both Dorothee and Harry out of their own very loud thoughts. He ducked his head in quick apology, then said, “inane that… You won’t let me deliver those men to the station, detective.” His voice cracked and every thought in his head winced in unison. Harry’s frown deepened and his eyes focused hard on Kim’s cheek. Even someone staring at the wound seemed to set the bare nerve ends alight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I’m not going, you’re not going.” Harry’s tone dictated a finality he rarely used— authority bore from his rank. Kim streaked fresh blood across his jaw and scowled at the fun-home reflection of his bruised face in his tea. In the ripples, he saw fish-eyes sat behind moonish spectacles. He should be dead. He could sense Harry knew this too, and with every soft sigh Kim uttered Harry leaned towards him, watchful as a mother hen. “Besides,” he continued, softer, dragging Kim out of his own head, “I need you here for… Her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothee, after turning from Kim’s outburst, had returned to staring blankly at the curtains hanging in front of her kitchen window. She looked ten years older now, with her face slack like wet clay and her eyes devoid of that vicious light she had offered them a mere hour before. Dorothee was a woman not built for violence thrust into it without a second thought– Kim could only imagine what the voices in her head might be prattling on about.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She probably doesn’t have voices in her head,” Logic said, “she seems perfectly sane. You, on the other hand, are crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim’s breath caught in his throat. Harry’s eyes glinted with concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> crazy,” Volition snapped, “don’t be irritating we are</span>
  <em>
    <span> trying not to freak out here.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, but Kim was indeed “freaking out”. His throat was tight with the memory of hands. His head was filled with voices that had their own damned titles. His partner was being a mysterious, unhelpful wall. And, though all this, the most upsetting thing was that he couldn’t relax enough to calm Dorothee, who did everything she could to help him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chin up, forehead smooth, eyes forward. You’re Kim fucking Kitsuragi and you will talk to this poor, catatonic woman and you will stop. Freaking. Out,” Composure cut through the noise like a saber. Kim stared down at himself in his tea. He was, indeed, Kim fucking Kitsuragi. He wore pride like a second skin. He kept his composure even in the face of bloody tribunals and fantastical phasmids. He was more than just a half-strangled lieutenant, he was Kim fucking Kitsuragi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sitting here, moping over something that didn’t happen, where’s your backbone, officer?” Authority crowed, “you can have your fucking breakdown tonight, in the shower, in bed, save it for your off time. Do your damn job.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dorothee–“ Kim started, sudden enough to catch Harry by surprise, “Dorothee, your tea is getting cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pregnant pause, and then Dorothee breathed in deeply and said, “that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” She took a slow sip and tore her eyes away from the window. Kim met her gaze like two storms colliding. Mechanically, Kim pulled his pack of Astras from his coat pocket and offered her a cigarette. She took it between two fingers and Harry leaned over to offer her a light. She sat and smoked like a chimney.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This woman is tired, but she isn’t afraid,” Empathy said, “she is filled with anger like you are filled with anger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Am I filled with anger, Kim thought with a furrowed brow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than you know,” Half Light whispered, “more than you will ever understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothee’s eyes trailed to the threshold, toward the hall where the two quiet men sat. She watched the hallway with suppressed glee and sipped her tea. Kim glanced at his notebook, which laid like a blue gap on the dusty white table, and felt an urge to write down another thought. He swallowed down the wish and instead took to examining Dorothee’s profile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wants to help you. She wants to guide you forward with this case,” Esprit de Corpus said, “in any way she can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I had a realization, while I beat that boy’s skull in,” she said, still staring at the hall, “I think I know who did it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘It’?” Kim asked, “murdered Missy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” The voice that hissed out Dorothee was more of a sigh, deep and anguished and angry. Smoke filled the room. Harry pressed a cigarette between his own lips and lit up. “I had a colleague, once… A friend, from college. Norman McArthur.” Kim caught a vein bulging in her neck. Anger incarnate. His hands slipped to his notebook and he wrote down Norman’s full name on a fresh line.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also an artist, I’m guessing,” Harry said, waving his cigarette to form a smokey rainbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, a painter,” Dorothee laughed, “a painter, you see. And he always loved the macabre, that little bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What makes you suspect him?” Kim asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His general disposition,” Dorothee snapped, then, after a moment of consideration, continued, “we were rivals in college, sort of. He was always strange and… He was the one who got me hooked, I suppose.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On partying,” Harry scowled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s a suspicious figure is what I’m saying,” Dorothee said, prodding her teacup, “and he is who I suspect did this. You can find his studio in Central Jamrock if you wish to look into him more. He teaches at the art college there, and I know I recommended Missy find work as a model for the students there, so… They’ve had a possibility of meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It is hardly a lead, more of a guess, but Kim wrote the information down regardless. Harry’s expressive eyebrows indicated he was more than interested in investigating this McArthur man. “Do you have any other reason for suspecting him, Dorothee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothee glanced toward the window again. Her voice was small and contained when she said, “no, not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s hiding something,” Drama said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll look into him,” Harry promised. At the same time, the sound of two MCs rolled down the street, and Kim stood to peer through the blinds. Outside, Jean and Judit climbed out of their Coupris ‘40, followed by three RCM officers Kim had yet to learn the names of. Harry had already gone to meet them at the door by the time Kim turned back around. He could hear vague mumbles from the two gangbangers in the hall, cursing them all as the frantic conversation grew out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dorothee,” Kim started, turning back to her, “it probably isn’t safe to stay here, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, well, I haven’t anywhere else to go. I suppose I could move all my vases to my room, they seem to work well against idiotic little boys.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The RCM can offer protection… A guard, or a safe house, or…” Kim removed his glasses and cleaned them on the hem of his shirt. Dorothee’s blurry figure cocked its head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We could send her to Garte,” Harry said from behind. Kim adjusted his glasses and turned to see him, Jean, and Judit standing in the doorway. The two gangbangers were being escorted out behind them by the patrol officers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In Martinaise? That’s…” Jean was struggling to find an issue with the plan, his eyes locked on Dorothee’s frail frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Judit, however, gave an inspired smile. “Honestly, that’s not a bad idea. We could have an officer stay with her at the Whirling-in-Rags. Witness protection is very important after all,” she said and bowed her head to Dorothee, “I am Officer Judit Minot, madam. This is my partner Jean Vicquemare. We’re here to help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I get their names before your’s, I see,” Dorothee shot a devious smile to both Kim and Harry, who shared sturdy, nervous glances. She laughed like a witch, “don’t worry, boys. Now, Martinaise you said? I’m sure this will be a very interesting adventure for me indeed…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹥﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤﹤</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two hours later, Kim was sat by Harry’s desk, eyeing the clock sitting over the coffee counter with growing impatience. The stitches in his cheek felt tight and foreign. Revachol’s sky, just beyond the silk mill windows, was creamsicle orange and dotted with bulbous pink clouds. Stark shadows lay across the second floor of Precinct 41, dancing as the sun dipped below the Jamrock skyscrapers. A reek of burnt coffee and kebabs emanated somewhere from McLaine’s desk, as did the continuous back and forth of banter that easily swallowed up the light jazz Officer Minot was attempting to enjoy from her own station.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Kim turned back to his notes, back to Harry, his eyes were immediately drawn up to the beige plaster that hid his matching wound. The fear in his heart flared for a moment. He stamped it down with enough self-issued authority to level a playground of rowdy children. Do your damn job, he told himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim and Harry hadn’t shared a single world since the drive back from Dorothee’s studio. Kim had driven with Judit on Jean’s recommendation, and while she had more than enough questions to ask Kim had been, for very obvious reasons, too exhausted to respond. Resting in the medical wing seemed to shake off most of the grogginess and inspired his brain-voices to consider talking to Harry about his actions during the fight. When he went to find him, however, Kim found he was already beaten to the punch by Jean. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> He was still looming over the back of his own seat, still cursing Harry out for his recklessness even after dealing with the two gangbangers and escorting Dorothee down to Whirling-in-Rags. The shouting didn’t cease even when Kim had settled beside Harry to attempt going over notes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could shut him up, you know,” Authority crooned, “a quick flash of the eyebrow, a scathing remark about his jealousy, he’d melt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve only been at Precinct 41 for a few months, lieutenant,” Esprit de Corps warned, “two months and three weeks to be exact. Don’t push your authority, you do not want your brothers to demean you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But look at Harry, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Empathy whined, and in fact it looked like Harry was. His face was ruddy and sweat dripped from his hairline. Something akin to pitiful sorrow welled in his bay-green eyes. Kim tuned back into Jean’s berating just in time to realize why Harry looked so devastated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, Harry! What if something happened to the witness? Or even to Kitsuragi? Just because you wanted to play the fucking hero and get shanked alone?” A shadow caught on Jean’s face, harsh and dark, and suddenly he looked so much older than he was. Sadder, angrier, more frightened. “You’re a moron, Harry, I really shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t let you drag Kitsuragi, or the rest of us down with your stupid fucking decisions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He cares too much and he hates it,” Empathy said, “he’s hiding behind the C-Wing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you shouldn’t stand for it,” Authority hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Officer Vicquemare,” Kim started, lips pursed, “I would say that your overenthusiastic scolding is half earned for the detective, but I would appreciate it if you kept my name out of your mouth in regards to this mess.” Jean stopped dead, his voice catching loudly in his throat. Harry’s neck snapped to stare as Kim continued on, “I will not sit here and let you use me or the others as a meat shield to hide all of your emotions behind. Either get over your repressing macho bullshit and say what you really mean or go on a smoke break and leave Detective Du Bois alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warmth of the sunset could not withstand the freezing mood that suddenly filled the bullpen. Even McLaine and Torson had fallen silent. Kim could feel their eyes on the back of his head. Jean straightened his back, eyes flashing, and he shot a glare across the room before he buried his hand into his pocket, pulled out a packet of Astras, and stalked over to the stairwell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that happened!” McLaine called, raising a soda can in a faux cheer, “thank you for shutting up ol’ Viccy, Kitsuragi. I was about to lose it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim couldn’t help but preen, His pridefulness ruffled like a feathered coat. Somewhere, deep within his mind, a voice asked a question. He automatically wrote it down into his notes: </span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: VICQUEMARE HIDES BEHIND ANGER. WHAT DO YOU HIDE BEHIND?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He likes to yell,” Torson said, unhelpfully, “bet it’s cause he’s all pent up. His heterosexual life partner’s been cheatin’ and everything. That’d make any man all mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, jeez, Du Bois, get back to sucking Jean’s dick before he goes on an apocalyptic bender like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Chester,” Harry groaned, “fucking fire crotch, don’t you have work to do or something?” His face was contorted into a horrid sneer. McLaine ducked down behind his desk, snickering hard as Torson stood to refill his mug with more burnt coffee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am… So sorry, Harry,” Kim whispered, “I don’t know why I… I shouldn’t have been so frank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s fine, Kim,” Harry tapped his pile of documents on the desk hard, once, twice, three times, bending every corner with unnecessary force, “I… I should talk to him soon, probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably,” Kim agreed. He pushed up his glasses and smoothed out the pages of his notebook, “We should talk about what happened already today, though, go over or notes before our next meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, sure,” Harry sighed and leaned forward, eyeing Kim’s notebook. He obviously caught the new inquiry before Kim had a chance to turn the page, “keeping notes on us now, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat climbed up to Kim’s ears. “Sometimes I get… Thoughts I need to write down. So I can go back to them later. Sometimes they’re more personal than I mean them to be.” Harry stared at him blankly. A flicker of recognition was reflected back at Kim. He couldn’t understand it, the look in Harry’s eye. His fingers itched to pluck the vessel of confusion from Harry’s skull and dissect it, just to figure out what made it tick. What made </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> tick? Harry’s rugged jaw creaked as he chewed the words in his mouth, sought to find the perfect combination maybe, to make Kim feel less unknowable. Kim found his attention caught by the sharp curve of Harry’s cheekbone. Somehow, he felt askew. His stomach rolled. He swallowed down his yearning like cough medicine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get that. I do that too, kind of,” Harry said and leaned back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like us, like us,” Inland Empire cried from the bowels of Kim’s mind, “ask him about us. About the dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Save it. For after work,” Esprit de Corps chided.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway,” Kim shook himself free of his mind, “before we meet with Evi, is there anything you want to discuss from what we learned today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, obviously, just addressing the elephant in the gallery here--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah-hah,” Kim frowned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we going to be investigating McArthur? Dorothee brought him up, but…” Harry sighed and scowled at his scratched desk, “I want to look into him but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But we have nothing but her word to go off of,” Kim drummed his pen against his chin, “of course, she also mentioned Missy worked as a model for the classes at the college where he works. If our investigations brought us there, we would have reasonable cause to at least ask him some questions.” The sky behind Harry turned a bruised purple as the sun was swallowed by the horizon. The silk mill’s hanging bulbs lazily flickered on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, Kim, you’re a genius,” Harry leaned back, face turned toward the window, “now, what do you think of Abel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not telling us the full story. Hiding behind his contracts,” Kim thumbed through his notes, “I’m interested in who this curator is, and V.V.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think they’re the same person?” Harry hummed, kicking his feet up onto his desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a theory,” Kim scratched his chin, “the janitor and the receptionist…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably unrelated, but good witnesses to have in case anything funny happens at the gallery.” Harry considered Kim’s profile, “what do you hope to get out of Evi?” The answer was obvious, but Kim could sense Harry wanted something from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ALLEYWAY LEGS’ name, maybe who she was before she was murdered since Torson and McLaine have been unsuccessful in their investigations.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can hear you, binoclard!” Torson whined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would hope so, officer,” Kim said, “but, maybe Evi has another lead or a motive. We can’t clue any of these people out yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking the same thing,” Harry said quickly. Kim had a feeling he was thinking of something very unrelated to the case. The stairwell door opened moments later and a ruffled Jean strode back in, beelining to Judit’s desk. Harry rose an eyebrow, then slid his pack of half-depleted cigarettes out of his breast pocket, “want to have your One?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim smiled but shook his head. No, the One was for a different conversation, later tonight, so Harry can’t run. “Later. I think it’s about time we started preparing for Evi, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry winced. “I hate driving through Industrial Harbor,” he whined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, good news for you, detective,” Kim stood up, twirling his MC keys around a gloved finger, “you won’t be the one driving.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>happy easter y'all! here's another small chapter, just laying some words down.<br/>I'd like to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments, really, you keep me going during these awful times. and you keep me inspired, of course, I'm so glad you are all enjoying this story and I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint you.<br/>stay safe and healthy.</p><p>check out my socials:</p><p>https://twitter.com/brankiee <br/>https://brankiee.tumblr.com</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Industrial Harbor was a forest of steel and smoke. Even as the dark of night loomed over Revachol, it was illuminated, burning with internal fires and electric dreams. Kim and Harry cruised past it all, trailing across an empty highway towards the address given to them by Evi. To their left, red steel beams and sleeping ships sat in dry land, awaiting their call back to the briny blue. To their right, an endless expanse of the sea stretched far towards the horizon, rippling with white waves and starless sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sad FM wailed over the speakers lethargically and Harry wailed along with it. His hand was pressed hard to his heart. His voice warbled. Kim swore he could see tears welling in Harry’s sea-sick green eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, the very pinnacle of good art is the emotions it churns within us,” Conceptualization mumbled. Kim could almost hear the scratching of a pen somewhere deep in the wrinkles of his brain, as if the voices were keeping notes. He was horrified with the notion that they might be picking up his habits.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He loves this song so much, it’s killing him. Perhaps there are some memories tied to it,” Empathy considered. Kim swiped a finger under his lip and cocked his head to stare at Harry’s reflection in the windshield glass. The blooming lights of the Industrial Harbor district danced across his pallor skin like shooting stars. If he were crying, his tears were flares, burning up under each passing streetlamp. The bloated quality of his skin, though not as bad as it were a few months ago, was still present enough to nearly hide the cracked expression of a broken man who is listening to a song that may just be laying salt in his old, hungry wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this song?” Kim asked, trying to be as casual as he can while the voices pestered about trying to shove more intimate questions up his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Oh,” Harry wiped his face down with his hand. His disastrous smirk burst forward. “It’s weird to explain but, you know how like, sound is the strongest reminder of memory or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do believe it’s smell, but go on.” Kim said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got ourselves a genius here, fellas,” Encyclopedia whispered. “What am I even needed for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Useless facts? Background noise?” Volition offered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Smell, sound, yeah,” Harry waved his hand. “Well, this one is uh, it’s called ‘A Light Above Descending’ I think. It was playing, from a store radio, when… Well, when something awful happened.” He fell silent. Kim turned his gaze to the flat black sky and zigzagging shadows of flying shipping containers and cargo ships. The song tapered off with the lines: “You will remember me won’t you? You do remember me don’t you?” Something deep in Kim’s chest twisted. He was reminded of Harry leaning hard against a pay-phone, drunk as the sea. Harry’s voice was harsh, an imitation of the deep, growling laughter Kim could still feel haunting his subconscious. He was begging someone to listen to him, to come home, to remember him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an awful, painful memory of a memory. It was heavy enough to strangle Kim’s heart and leave it black and blue. He pinched the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. Harry reached over to the radio and turned down the volume as the late night DJ began droning on about locals shows on Boogie Street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll be at the rendezvous point shortly. Should we go over what we want to ask Evi?” Kim said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, right,” Harry dragged his hand down his face again. “Obviously, names if she has any. She seemed to maybe at least know ALLEYWAY LEGS’ face, right?” He rested his chin between his thumb and index finger, eyes unseeing as he parsed through memories of the past day. “Maybe ask if she knows about Missy Maeve, since she was a bit famous around the youngin’s.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a good lead. This is a powerful lead. You’ll get to see many many many truths,” Inland Empire chittered about. Kim winced and nearly missed his turn off point. The Kineema groaned as he jutted the wheel hard to the right. The road puttered off into a wide, flat lot, paved over with unmarked asphalt. Trash littered the lot, empty bottles of liquor and beer, plastic bags, remnants of some grand event. An abandoned wharf warehouse creaked against the blistering seawind, and three concrete docks jutted out over the small strip of beach beyond the parking lot, empty and unkept. A single motorcarriage sat hidden behind an old shipping container, still steaming and hissing. On the first dock, at the very end, Kim could see the cherry of a cigarette burning before a round silhouette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love a punctual witness,” Harry mused as he jumped out of the Kineema and slammed the door behind him. Kim cut the engine and followed right after him, bundling up against the harsh, cold wind from the sea. Harry and Kim walked down the dock side-by-side, growing closer and closer until Evi’s moonish glasses and round face came into view. The sky behind her, now that it was further away from the harsh lights of the rest of the district, was dotted with tiny specks of stars. Waves crashed against the legs of the docks, loud and curious. Evi took a long drag of her cigarette and ashed it into the sea. There was a grave secret hidden behind the rosiness in her cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening, we are detectives Kim Kitsuragi and Harry Du Bois from the RCM— I’m sure you're aware of our professions by now, though,” Kim said as they approached, ducking his head in greeting. Evi nodded, glancing at Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She doesn’t have a very good impression of your partner. Proceed with caution,” Esprit de Corps whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like shit,” Evi noted, glasses flashing. Kim instinctively rose his shoulders to try and hide the bruises around his throat and the stitches in his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wh–” Harry began, but Kim raised his voice above his sleepy baritone and the howling wind to cut him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why did you have us meet here, Ms. Evi?” He asked. Evi’s shoulders stiffened minutely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anxiety. She’s hiding something,” Half-Light hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She hasn’t even said anything yet, calm down,” Volition snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s loud here, and open. I can see if anyone else shows up,” Evi stared past them, towards the empty parking lot and gutted warehouse. “I don’t want people knowing what we’ll talk about so… I thought it was a good place. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s good to be paranoid. Keeps you ready for anything,” Harry offered. Kim elbowed his side and stepped forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just have some questions for you, then, about the paintings from the gallery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, shoot.” Evi flicked her cigarette butt into the waves and lit another in quick succession. Kim pulled his notebook from his pocket and threw Harry a glance, which he seemed to preen at.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Evi, the painting you were looking at today, the one named ‘Gateway to the Void’, you looked like you recognized it. Care to tell us why?” Harry asked, delicate as he can manage with such a horrendously put first question. Evi’s shoulders stiffened and she turned to stare down the coast. Her lips pursed around the paper of her cigarette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t recognize the painting, really. It was… The person in the painting. She looks like… She looks like my friend, Nora Nuevan. Fuck,” her eyes turn to the sky and Kim can see the telltale sparkle of tears glistening in the darkness. “I hope it’s not her, I really, really do but, but…. God! Nora’s been missing for weeks now, maybe a month, and then she shows up in a fucking painting? Dammit.” Evi pushed her glasses up and furiously rubbed her eyes with her arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry’s eyes sparked. “Nora Nuevan? We haven’t gotten a missing person’s report for her, have we Kim?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… That name doesn’t ring a bell. Could they have filed one in another district?” Kim bit his lip and cursed the ever recurring failings of the RCM. Evi sniffled and glared out to sea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is why I didn’t want to… Fuck! If the RCM were in anyways competent she would’ve been home safe,” Evi cursed and glanced towards her carriage, expression twisted in anger. “It’s all your fault! You couldn’t find her in time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wants to go. But she also has more to say. There is something deeper there. Be placating,” Empathy suggested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But not too placating. Let her know you’re in charge,” Authority snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re terribly sorry, Ms. Evi, truly. Sometimes— things are complicated. If I had known I would have given it my all to bring her home safe. Right now, though, we can fight to bring the people who hurt her to justice,” Kim said, firm and careful. A wave bounced up behind Evi, showering them with chilled water. She stood resolute against the sea and their words, her expression unreadable. Then, the moon peeked through the clouds and cast the world in a silver-blue glow. The ocean glittered around them. Evi’s blue hair fluttered in the wind, beating against her stoney face. She stared at a place somewhere beyond Harry and Kim. The warehouse perhaps?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” Evi sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll tell you what I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wonderful,” Harry said, elbowing Kim. “Let's start with Nora, what can you tell us about her? Were you close?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Close as can be, really, she was my best friend. We went to the same university together, Jamrock School of the Arts. She wanted to be a political illustrator, ya know, the ones who do the comics in the newspaper. She was very… Open with her politics and her art. I wanted to be a painter, so a lot of our classes mixed.” Evi removed her glasses and wiped them clean on her glossy black shirt. Kim squinted past the specks of seawater and night, keeping his chin held high and his body immovable if only not to spook the young girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So many artists in this case. Oooh, I can just smell the dramatic irony,” Conceptualization purred. Kim’s eyebrow twitched minutely. Harry’s eyes skimmed the side of his face, then returned to smiling blindly at Evi.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did she have any enemies? Any friends or partners she complained about often?” Harry prompted. Kim noted her hands start to shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, no one she complained about but… I always felt like she hung with the wrong crowds on the weekends. She would go to Boogie Street with these spiked-up weirdos and get blasted. It scared me, I never really went, but the stories she told me… It wasn’t safe, officers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, so she was also into partying,” Harry mumbled. “Do you know if she was ever close to anyone named Missy Maeve?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Missy Maeve? I mean, I saw her in figure drawing classes, but we never talked to her. I don’t think Nora even knew her name.” Evi answered. Kim furiously took notes, feeling some sort of connection spur within the very recesses of his black mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry cleared his throat and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “Did Nora partake in… Shall we just be frank? Drugs of any kind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. It’s the scene, you know. Disco insanity,” Evi said, ashing her cigarette. “‘It isn’t a party without a little sugar’ is what she would tell me. Stupid. I… I wish she would have just listened to me, ya know? Stopped doing those things. They rotted her brain.” Kim watched the gray flakes of ash flutter like snow across the heavy wind. In the distance, a storm brewed, dark and foreboding. The thunder was white noise, buried under the crashing waves and howling wind. An incessant need to have a cigarette of his own was building, but now was not the time. They didn’t have all the answers yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry was still warming up. He turned his face to the wind and sniffed the air. “It’s a wonderful night for a party, ya know,” he said offhandedly, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Cold and loud. That warehouse over there is the perfect location too.” Evi’s expression shuttered again. She sucked hard on her cigarette and choked on the smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The trash… Evi brought us here for a reason, and not just because it’s remote. Harry is following a tree,” Logic said. Kim’s head swiveled back to stare at the trash billowing around in the lot. Beyond that, the warehouse with its open, hollow halls glared at them. Broken windows, broken wood, something in the darkness lurked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you implying?” Evi wheezed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t just some abandoned dock is it, Evi? What did you want us to discover here?” Kim pushed, eyes flashing. Evi shakily reached into her pocket for another cigarette and came up empty handed. Harry, smooth as can be, produced his cart for her. She took a cigarette with a single thankful bow of the head and lit up once more. Like smoke, her anxiety floated away with each puff. She smiled tightly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s breaking. She’s remembering. It hurts,” Empathy whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a dock, detective. A safe one.” Evi said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it safe? Is it not something more? You artist types love connecting the dots, just like us,” Harry leaned forward, his expression fading until he looked like the broken, ruddy man Kim knew existed between the jokes and the music and the bravado. “There is a connection here, Evi. Please. We’re here to help you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything you can tell us will bring us one step closer to bring your friend’s killer to justice,” Kim said, knowingly cruel for admitting Nora was indeed killed. Harry stiffened beside him and Kim’s empathy coiled tight, feeling cold and heavy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evi’s eyes welled with tears. She broke the cigarette between her fingers and sucked in a deep, shaky breath. “This… Was the last place Nora was before she disappeared. A party here. I was here too and I… I just left her here alone.” Her smile cracked and pulled and fell into a despairing grimace. “It’s my fault, isn’t it? I let her get taken and now she’s… She’s dead. I was all she had and I left her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry and Kim shared a glance. The air around them felt empty, and the young girl cried and cried into her arm. The carcass of the warehouse behind them now stood as an eerie tomb, the last known location of a woman who had been murdered and immortalized in a snuff painting. Before them stood someone who had lost everything in that building.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim swallowed hard, daunted by the tears that shone in the moonlight. Anxiety or anger churned deep within his muscles, ripping and tearing itself apart. He had already nearly torn himself open for Dorothee today, could he do the same for Evi?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you willin’ to show off that bleedin’ heart of yours, Kimball?” A growling voice purred. Kim pressed his hand to his stomach and twisted his fingers into the fabric of his jacket. Beside him, Harry watched and waited. Concern spilled off him like insects, buzzing around them all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective,” Kim whispered. “Could you comfort Ms. Evi? I wish to investigate the warehouse.” Harry’s expression morphed into doubt, and he threw Evi another quick look. Kim could already see the gears buzzing in his head as Harry tried to think of a way out of his babysitting duties. “Trust me. It’ll be quick. I don’t imagine I’ll find anything worthwhile.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it safe to go alone?” Harry blurted out, much too loud. Evi jumped back a step, eyes wide and red-rimmed. Kim lifted his hands placatingly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Harry,” he said. “I’ll be fine, I won’t be alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Harry’s mouth fell open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Half of the voices snapped. Kim winced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be fine,” he reiterated. “I’ll be back, just want to scope it out.” Kim didn’t stick around to wait for Harry’s approval. With a breath of authority he strode back down the dock towards the shore. His bomber jacket’s collar smacked against his chin, near enough to his bruises to ache. The warehouse grew larger and darker as he approached, bearing down on him like some hungry beast. The sea breeze caught in the gaping garage entryway, groaning through the brown-brick building darkly. The starburst that was Inland Empire burned behind his eyes, frightened and intrigued. Mechanically, his arms lifted and he wrote a new passage in the margin of his notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: ARE YOU STILL AFRAID OF THE DARK?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim stared down at the inquiry. Was he ever afraid of the dark? Sure, he was much less functional in the dark than other people— poor eyesight didn’t translate into decent night vision, after all. The blackness before him was eerily familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, can you believe it’s been a day since we all got to know each other,” Logic drawled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is now really the time?” Esprit de Corps snapped. Kim pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and stepped into the warehouse. A meager beam of light skimmed the dusty, trampled floor and graffitied walls. The darkness loomed around him like a predator, waiting for a chance to strike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“GHOULS. GHOULS. GHOULS,” Inland Empire cried loud enough to make Kim’s ears ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? What is he on about?” Kim grumbled, pressing his free hand to the side of his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think he’s afraid,” Empathy hummed. “Or, rather, you’re afraid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of ghouls?” Kim asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“THEY’RE REAL AND IN THE DARK,” Inland Empire droned on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ghouls don’t exist. Just ignore him—“ Logic began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> ghouls don’t exist? You thought cryptids didn’t exist too and, well,” Physical Instrument huffed. Kim’s memory fluttered like sea reeds in the wind— like long, spindly legs in the sun. The insect face of the Insulindian Phasmid stared blankly through him in his mind’s eye, haunting and alien. Wind ripped through the warehouse. Kim dropped his flashlight with a gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... Oh, my goodness. You’re right,” Logic stammered. “Ghouls are real and they’re in the dark. We should get out of here.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we please calm down?” Volition begged. Kim stumbled as he reached for the flashlight. The beam rolled across the warehouse floor and caught on a sticky spot. A section of the far wall was illuminated bright white</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kitsuragi, eye’s up,” Perception snapped loud enough to force Kim to lift his gaze. A huge section of the wall was covered in graffito, and written in the blocky red text before him was:</span>
</p><p>
  <b>BUY FROM DAZ METHA AND DREAM FOREVER</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daz Metha…” Kim straightened up and stuck the flashlight between his lips to flip through his notes. Daz Metha was the faceless and improbable name from Devall’s contract. Why was his name written on some party warehouse wall? Kim wandered deeper into the warehouse, ignoring the prickling fear that clung to the nape of his neck. The right and left walls were decked out head to toe in messy words and art pieces— the only graffito even legible was the one mentioning Daz Metha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe it's a pseudonym. Actually, it’s definitely a pseudonym,” Logic said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, a drug dealer with a pen name, how original,” Conceptualization hummed. Kim couldn’t shake the fact that he somehow knew of this “Daz Metha”— the letters, the feel of them in his mouth, the connection between the warehouse and the person mentioned in Devall’s contract— something greater sat between those two points. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dorothee came to mind then, her raspy voice thick with smoke and truth. Kim saw her with his back to the Missy bust, saw her talking to Harry about vices– partying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Partying, drugs and alcohol and sticky warehouse floors. Partying. Daz Metha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Find something, Kim?” Harry asked, gusting breath over Kim’s neck. He gasped loud and swore, for a moment, it was actually a ghoul come to steal his spine or peel his skin or spirit him away. Gravity became his enemy as the fright of Harry’s sudden appearance pitched Kim forward. Before he could clatter to the ground, Harry’s large, strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him back. The flashlight dropped from his grip with a loud bang. Somewhere in the darkness, Evi snorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh wow, he’s warm. He’s hotter than an engine— cuddle up, Kimball. Soak it allllll in,” Electrochemistry purred. Kim’s ears burned. He was scared they might be visible through the dark, two lone beacons on the sides of his head showing the way to his deepest, darkest, stupidest desires. “He’s lookin’ down at you now, don’t you feel those eyes? Is he worried? Is he laughing? Who fucking cares! Hug him back!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Nononono! That is a very bad idea!” Logic said meekly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hug him! Kiss him! Isn’t this what you want?” Electrochemistry yelled, overpowering every rattled thought in Kim’s head. Harry’s arms shifted and slid across his body as slowly as a dream. Kim couldn’t help but feel the way Harry’s coat scratched against his, creating a symphony of cloth. His fingers plucked against the hollows of Kim’s bomber jacket and, for a moment, caught on his shoulders and squeezed tight, as if to ensure himself that Kim was still there. Still tangible. He was stunned and real beneath Harry’s touch. Kim was certain he might fall over again if he so much as shivers against his partner. Above him, Harry sighed. Then his hands were gone and Kim could finally breathe.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep it cool, calm, and collected, lieutenant,” Authority instructed. “Don’t let them see you shaken. Fix your coat.” Kim adjusted his jacket. “Straighten your back.” Kim let his shoulders fall back, elongating his spine. “Turn around and give him a piece of your mind for scaring him.” Kim turned on his heels and pointed the flashlight beam right into Harry’s dopey face. He stared down at Kim with a wry smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective, I hope you realized how unprofessional that was,” Kim said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aw, c’mon, Kim! I thought you heard me coming. What, was my shuffle too quiet for you?” Harry leaned in and Kim caught a whiff of his acrid breath. Cigarette smoke and alcohol steamed off of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A vein in Kim’s jaw threatened to burst. “Do not. Sneak up on me. Detective,” he said in a measured tone. Harry drew back and pouted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind him, Evi cleared her throat. “Detective Du Bois, should I—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah! Right!” Harry gestured to Evi. “Evi here has told me something that you’d just love to write down in that little notebook of yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that is?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They had a class with a one Norman McArthur—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Advanced painting. Nora was always a bit head over heels for him— not in a gross way, he’s a wonderful artist,” Evi quickly interjected, swaying on her feet. Kim pulled his notebook up and wrote down this new information.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for letting us know, Ms. Evi. We’ll have to bring our investigation to your university,” Kim said.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever it takes, detectives. I just want whoever did this to pay,” she whispered, barely audible over the building’s howling acoustics.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s gettin’ late, Kim. We should head back and tell Mclaine and Torso about Nora before they head out for the night,” Harry said– no, slurred. Kim’s eyebrow flicked up a fraction of an inch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drinking on the job again. What’s gotten into him?” Esprit de Corps droned. Anger and confusion welled in Kim like acid. He pressed a finger to his temple and slipped his notebook back into his jacket pocket. The moonlight outside grew brighter as the cloudy sky began to clear on the horizon. Harry whistled a jaunty tune and rubbed his hands together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim glanced back at the Daz Metha graffito and frowned. He could figure this puzzle out over his One tonight, surely. “Alright, detective,” Kim finally said. He turned around to leave and paused at the sight of the single wall he did not investigate for graffito. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There, around the wide, cracked sliding garage doorway, was a face. A woman with weeping, bloodshot eyes stared down at them, her lips peeled back to reveal the sea and darkness outside. Her mouth was the entrance and exit. Her hands, pressed further down the wall, were struck through by the warehouse windows, appeared to possess a stigmata Kim would never understand. Gore and tears mingled on the brick, faded with time, but somehow Kim couldn’t imagine the wall without the woman imprinted on to it. She has always been there. She was the only truth in this warehouse. This hungry, broken painting seared itself in his mind. The voices were silent. The brush strokes and rust colors were eerily familiar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was an unforgettable goodbye. She had devoured all who had tried to leave this wretched, gutted building. Kim tore the flashlight beam away, illuminating the ground instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hate that thing,” Evi mumbled. “It’s creepy. I hate this place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then let us not waste another moment here. We’ll walk you to your MC, Ms. Evi,” Kim said and she smiled, gentle as the night.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello kings! It’s been awhile! I want to dedicate this chapter to Pikalex and Kawa from the DE discords— they liked this piece enough to commission an update (which has turned into two updates now ;)) ) I’m happy to be back to writing this beast, and happy that so many people like it! There will be another update sometime in the next two weeks, so look forward to that!</p><p>In other news, I am taking writing commissions! Got an OC you want a fic for? Got a story you can’t put into words? Got a need for some random poetry? Hit me up! Details can be found here: <span><br/><a href="https://twitter.com/brankiee/status/1268601795804377089?s=21">Commission Details</a><br/></span></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The drive back had been filled with constant questions from Harry and perpetual silence from Kim. By the time they had hit the sugar mill the cigarette carton in his bomber jacket pocket felt heavy as lead. Kim shouldered his way out of the groaning Kineema and sighed loud enough to fill the empty, dark garage with some kind of human noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could have dropped you off at home, detective,” Kim said, walking towards the stairs. It was a little past the twenty-second hour of the day, late enough to ensure most RCM officers were home or preparing to head out. There was the faintest hum of electricity somewhere from above. Kim could smell late night kebabs and cigarette smoke pooling out from the cracks of the stairwell’s door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry followed right on his heels and grinned as he revealed his own carton of cigarettes. “It’s time for you One, isn’t it? We can mull over things on the roof together if you want.” Kim, truly, did not want any further interactions with Harry after catching the reek of vice on him. Weeks spent being reassured that he was clean felt like distant years. Half the voices in his head were coiled in disgust, another half beaming with concern, and a certain someone was urging him to follow right in Harry’s footsteps and grab a bottle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The dream, you infernal engine. The dream,” Inland Empire said, quiet as a neuron. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed open the door for Harry. “You can help me figure out a puzzle then. Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They climbed the spiral staircase up, up, up– stopping only to peek into the C Wing’s bullpen and catch a sleepy McLaine before he left for the night. Seeing the color rise to his cheeks as Harry gave him the information of Nora Nuevan was more satisfying than Kim expected. His fingertips itched and he splayed his hands wide in the safety of his jacket pockets. McLaine left them behind with two hastily scribbled-on papers and a face nearly the same shade of red as his hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry threw Kim a victorious smirk. “He looked pissed. Think you paid him back for all that locker room talk?” He asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not. As soon as I get here tomorrow it’ll be right back to routine,” Kim pulled a cigarette out from his carton and examined it in the fluorescents. “And I should be clear, detective, I am but a slave to routine.” He stuck it behind his ear and led the way to the roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim and Harry ascended the stairwell again until they reached a peeling door. A broken lightbulb swung above them, low enough to brush against Harry’s head, and cigarette butts littered the steel steps. Cool air filled the landing, a stark difference from the oppressive warmth below them. Harry reached out and strained to pull the old door open. It creaked with both age and overuse— a cry for help, really. Kim considered running down to get some oil for the poor thing but Harry was already through the door before he had a chance to speak up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why put off the inevitable, Kimball? Your fingers are already itching,” Electrochemistry purred. “You can’t wait to get a lungful of smoke, I know it. Can’t wait to let your thoughts slide into place with each inhalation. I know you, Kimball.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim scowled and tucked his cigarette between his lips before he followed Harry out into the chilly night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jamrock sprawled around them in all directions. Starlight was trapped in rows of black buildings— moments of time forever held within glass panes. Homes and businesses and bars and parks cooled in the spring air like the Kineema’s engine; loud and bright and musical. Smoke rose from the industrial district in plumes and swallowed the clouds in the sky. The bright lights of Boogie Street scared away any stars that might have tried to peek through the crowd. White noise rolled all around them in their city of song and dust. A voice in Kim, one which felt more in tune with his usual mind than any of the others, sighed in adoration. The air was blue. Harry leaned against the safety railing and stared out at the city with drunken pride clear in his eye. Kim shivered. He felt it too, pride for this rotten gem of a city. He imagined this was as familiar as he could be with the Harry beside him now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should ask him about the drinking,” Empathy whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should ask him about Daz Metha,” Esprit de Corps implored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should ask him about the dream, your shared dream,” Inland Empire hissed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim strode up to the railing and struggled to light his cigarette with his dented lighter. Harry, who’s cigarette was already burning bright and free, leaned down and pushed past Kim’s cupped hands with his own. The air sailed out of Kim’s lungs as Harry pressed the burning cherry of his cigarette to Kim’s, lighting it easily. This was hardly professional, and yet— Kim couldn’t find any words to fight with. The reek of alcohol and ozone and salt and nicotine assaulted his senses. Kim tamped down the urge to inhale deeply and, once his cherry glowed, turned away to focus his attentions on a distant, glittering high rise. The world blurred around them. His heart galloped into oblivion. He inhaled until his lungs ached and sighed out a cloud of spicy smoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eventful day,” Harry began, exhaling his own misshapen cloud. “Lots of good info but— feel like we haven’t even scratched the surface of this thing yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to say the same thing,” Kim lied. Surfaces had been completely breached today. Kim was trapped under a delirious mind fog discovering secrets and clues faster than he had ever before in his life. “There’s a name I noticed today that almost rings a bell but not quite. Do you know a Daz Metha?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think so. A name like Daz Metha is pretty memorable, even for idiots with amnesia, I say,” Harry joked, taking a long pull of his cigarette. He looked younger against the light pollution, sharper, even. His soft folds and curves took on a harsher reality. The smoke blurred Harry at the edges, turning him into a memory Kim couldn’t grasp. He wished, for a moment, that they had met sooner in life before the weight of the world was shoved onto their shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: HARRIER DU BOIS IS-SLASH-WAS HANDSOME?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim refused to pull out his notebook for such an asinine thought. The voices toyed around with it themselves, quietly whispering answers he easily ignored.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep on topic. Daz Metha?” Volition prompted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Daz Metha, Daz Metha,” Kim mumbled, scowling at the bright end of his cigarette. “It can’t be a real name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely not,” Harry agreed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A drug dealer named Daz Metha, damn. I really can’t think of anything.” Kim would glare at his own brain if he could. Inside his head, he could feel at least four of the voices raise their metaphorical shoulders in a stumped shrug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence drew out long and harsh like a gunshot until Harry snapped his fingers.“Shit, Kim, I think I got it!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim tried not to startle too obviously. “Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It could be an anagram! Like those serial killers in detective novels, they scramble their names when they’re not smart enough to come up with something better.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh please, no one would try that in real life,” Kim scoffed and drew his notebook from his pocket. He glowered down at the name etched into the page, blocky and swollen with ink. He took in each letter, one after another. Something clicked in the back of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It could be an anagram,” Visual Calculus hummed. “D-A-Z-M-E-T-H-A. They match with another drug dealer that we heard today.” Dorothee’s laugh echoed in his head. Kim’s eyebrows furrowed into a sharp line. “Remember the graffito?” Visual Calculus continued. An image of the warehouse bloomed in his mind’s eye, faint as smog. The deep red text glowed like the sun. Kim noticed, suddenly, the impressive detail that was put into the thick M of Metha. The image seemed to solidify and brighten as if he had taken a picture with another set of perfectly seeing eyes. Kim could now see, in the thick red paint, etchings of poppy flowers. The notebook fell from his hands and Harry reached out quickly to grab it before the wind could carry it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kim?” Harry whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” Kim took a step back and inhaled a chestful of smoke. “It’s The Mazda.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Mazda? Daz Meth… Wow, that’s–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just obvious enough to be tricky. This keeps getting messier.” Kim snatched up his notebook and shoved it into his pocket. His One was threatening to become a Two.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, The Mazda is somehow connected to both the gallery and the two suspects, at least in some estranged way,” Harry hummed. “Drug addicted young women with peculiar names are painted, maimed, and thrown away, then their likenesses are sold to a gallery which has a very particular contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And please don’t forget the college professor painter whose name was dropped by two witnesses and the still unknown name on the contract, ‘V.V.’,” Kim sighed. “We’ll have a busy day tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m excited to jump in,” Harry threw Kim a beaming grin and Kim could only shake his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you be </span>
  <em>
    <span>ready</span>
  </em>
  <span> for it, officer?” Kim withheld a smirk when he saw Harry crumble.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, you’re mad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know why I’m mad?” Kim asked, shooting an eyebrow his way. Harry seized up again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh… No?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harry, you’ve been drinking. I smell it on you.” Kim turned and leaned his elbow against the railing. Harry stared out into the city, his eyes glassy and magnetic. He was out there, somewhere in the sky, thousands of miles away from the realization that his lie of sobriety had been caught. Kim watched him and tried desperately to understand this man before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s about to cry,” Empathy whispered. Kim would ask for a way to help, but he couldn’t imagine his mind had any advice for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… I just gave Evi a sip, she was really hurtin’, Kim. It was just a sip,” Harry mumbled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A sip can lead to a lot more, Harry. I don’t want to mother you, but I really…” Kim sighed. “I really don’t want you to spiral.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t spiral, Kim! I promise I’m on top of things.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then give me your flask.” Kim held out his hand and Harry turned his face further away, shoulders hunching. His fingers tightened against the rail, leaving shiny wet marks on the metal. Then, with practiced restraint, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small silver flask, small enough to hide within Harry’s palm. Kim took the flask, admired the shine of it in the city lights, and then threw it over the roof.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you serious?” Harry said. His body leaned forward after the glowing rectangle and Kim, more out of annoyance than concern, fisted his fingers into Harry’s collar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, detective. I won’t let my partner on this investigation wander around intoxicated,” Kim purred and finished off his cigarette with a pointed gasp and exhale. He flicked the butt into the shadows of the sugar mill roof. “Now then, I want to ask you–” Before he could finish his question, though, Harry pushed away from the railing and strode towards the door. “Harry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I forgot, I have a thing to see tonight at home. Sorry, Kim, ask me tomorrow.” Harry’s voice was deep and scratchy, familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no, the dream,” Inland Empire whined. “You haven’t asked, the dream. You have to ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Detective, wait, I really–”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m serious Kim. I gotta go.” Harry snapped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anxiety spiked through him like the wind. He took a step after Harry, then another, hands desperate to reach out and stop him, hold him, do anything to keep him around. The voices moaned and sighed in his head. A secret remains covered, hidden away from them. The connection that had spurred as they watched the city together fizzled. Harry looked back once after he reached the door, and Kim was struck by the fear and anger clear on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, baby. It’s going to be a shitshow,” the feral darkness growled within Kim. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry turned away, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” And then he was gone, swallowed by the black rectangle beyond the rooftop doorway.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A shorter chapter. Once again dedicated to Kawa and Pika! This is mostly set up for a chapter that may or may not happen sometime this month. I'm very busy with work though so don't expect much soon :((</p><p>Thank you all for the kind comments. Know that I read them all! I sadly don't have the energy to respond to all of them but they really keep me going. Thank you.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Kim stared down into a void. For the first time all day and night his mind was silent, utterly devoid of language. There was just inky blackness warm as blood on his naked skin. Kim Kitsuragi, void expert that he admitted himself to be, felt unprepared for whatever may lie in his dreams tonight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a taste of alcohol on his tongue, rich and hot, some sort of whiskey that lingered too long in the back of his throat. He could feel cushions beneath him, not of the bed he threw himself into once he got home from the precinct, but rather the sturdy foam of an old couch. Kim lifted his hands to touch his face and found distended, leaking flesh. His fingers too, were fat and unfamiliar, belonging to someone else. Kim floated in the void in a body that wasn’t his own. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Down the rabbit hole again, aye?” Growled the Ancient Reptilian Brain. Kim’s arm moved, holding something untenable to his lips. He drank from the nothingness and tasted more heat that numbed the voice down to a sated whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim knew who he possessed. The grasping tendrils of darkness moved and created a mirror above him, reflecting his own face back down, and before him laid not his own dark eyes and stoic mouth but the drunken stupor of Harrier Du Bois. Harry reacted bodily to the reflection and Kim failed to grasp if that was his own expression or Harry truly noticing him somewhere in the ceiling of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Infernal Engine…” Limbic System crooned, “you lay within this festering meat and find that he lays within himself too. You are one and the same, now, of two minds and one body. Bloated and hungry, lapping at the throat of bottles. Lapping at each other. It is like he said, one sip, one sip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all it took, baby, and boom, back down into nonexistent. He loves it, binoclard, the lack of it. The holding darkness that promises to never let go. It’s his own fucked up little mind palace, the brink of something that will never come, the climax that never ends. The End. And thanks to his contagion, you get to see it too. Lucky, lucky dork,” The Ancient Reptilian Brain stretched out its vocal cords and fluttered, unseen and wide, though its voice was still as soft as the droplets of amber on Kim and Harry’s tongue. The reflection vanished, but Harry remained.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim was consumed. He couldn’t tell up from down. He hardly knew himself from Harry. Somewhere he began and ended and thus started Du Bois, trapped in a half-sleep, encasing Kim within his nerve endings. Hell was other people, as they say, and Kim now knew exactly what they meant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not want to fester, and he would not allow Harry to fester. When his mind began to zone out and become infected with the same blackness that existed outside of him, he sought out the hands of the other voices which joined him in wakefulness. Perhaps he could find a way to tell himself and Harry apart, to separate his own flesh from the suckling hunger of Harry’s mind. Kim imagined it vibrantly, diving forward towards the watercolor lights, reaching and reaching until he caught something tangible that was his and only his. He couldn’t see his own body anymore, but he could feel his fingers flex and grip the dimpled leather of his notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why run from the dark, Kim-baby? What’s so scary about the inevitable,” Ancient Reptilian Brain echoed in the distance. Kim pulled his hand back into existence and found that his own fingers had returned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The heaving body of Harry deflates. Somewhere, glass hits wood and does not shatter. Somewhere, a light flashes in the void, only for an instance, threatening to wake the dream, threatening to reveal that no matter what you remain,” Limbic System fretted. Kim opened the notebook.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: ARE YOU STILL AFRAID OF THE DARK?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim was not afraid of the dark. He was afraid of what may linger in it. That was primal and sacred, a fear from his ancestors who may have once existed before the Pale. Inherited phobias existed within every human. Kim Kitsuragi was a master of staring into voids, he was a master of knowing what may lay within it if he swallowed down that primordial terror. Kim was not afraid of the dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t shake these symptoms. Even if you wake up the next morning crazy-free, you have the antibodies, the remains of the sickness. You’ll stop nothing. You’re sick, man,” Ancient Reptilian Brain hollered from the dark. Kim flipped the page and scanned through notes until his vision began to blur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: VICQUEMARE HIDES BEHIND ANGER. WHAT DO YOU HIDE BEHIND?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim hid behind his glasses. He hid behind his gloves. He hid behind his bomber jacket and his notebook and his professionalism. Humans needed masks to survive; that was yet another primal instinct. Harrier Du Bois had no masks. He hid behind nothing unless he needed to, and Kim was ceaselessly jealous of him. There was no freer man than Harry, and yet he poisoned himself and his mind with drugs and alcohol, burning holes in his throat if only to numb that what made him maskless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sliding back into your own skin hurts. The cutting hairs of your forearms, the swirling portals of your fingertips. Your meaty interior cries out as everything collects back to where it belongs and your heart begins to pump again. It is agony, returning to one’s own mind, but Infernal Engine, you find it necessary. You seek the pain. You seek singularity. Why?” Limbic System whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>INQUIRY: KIM. WAKE. UP.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kim awoke on the floor beside his bed, tangled in his sheets. The world was a blur of colors, colored by the dawn in pale yellows and pinks. His hands were clutching his notebook, fingers curled hard around the pages, crinkling the words and smudging the ink with his dripping sweat. Electricity hummed through the entire building and filled his ears with the buzz of it. His shoulder was sore and the stitches in his cheek felt taut and close to splitting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a dream,” Logic whispered delicately. Kim pulled his legs free from his sheets and fell entirely onto the freezing linoleum. The voices hummed quietly this morning, a stark difference from their exasperated clamoring the day prior, and Kim could only be wordlessly thankful for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go get ready, Lieutenant. Dreams are hardly an excuse for a day off,” Esprit De Corps commanded, back by the ever booming presence of Authority. Kim stared up at his ceiling and felt glad that it was white, pocked with bubbles, familiar utterly and entirely. He lifted his hands and stared at his well-kept nails, his smooth palms, his calloused trigger finger. He touched his face and reveled in his flat wrinkles, his blind eyes. He was Kim Kitsuragi. Alone and singularly himself.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a teeny tiny chapter. more of a teaser than anything as I assume when I replay this game (WITH FULL VOICE ACTING BABY) in a few months ill dive fully back into this fic. until then, though, i am entrenched in a book world and very busy trying to find a job. I'm sorry for making you all wait so long. this dream sequence isn't important to the case at hand, but perhaps it's important to the OTHER mystery floating around in this mess of language. i hope you enjoy it, as tiny as it is.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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